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PEICE THIKTY-FIVE CENTS 




HOME ACRES 



BY 



ARTHUR LEWIS TUBBS 




HE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
PHILADELPHIA 



Successful Rural Plays 

A Strong List From Which to Select Your 

Next Play 

PARM folks; a Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthu! 
jLEWis Tubes. For five male and six female characters. Timi 
of playing, two hours and a half. One simple exterior, tw< 
easy interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Flora Goodwin, ; 
farmer's daughter, is engaged to Philip Burleigh, a young Ne\ 
Yorker. Philip's mother wants him to marry a society woman 
and by falsehoods makes Flora believe Philip does not love hei 
Dave Weston, who wants Flora himself, helps the deception b; 
intercepting a letter from Philip to Flora. She agrees to marr 
Dave, but on the eve of their marriage Dave confesses, Phili 
learns the truth, and he and Flora are reunited. It is a simpl 
plot, but full of speeches and situations that sway an audienc 
alternately to tears and to laughter. 

HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthu 
LeWis Tubes. Characters, four male, five female. Plays tw 
hours and a half. Scene, a simple interior — same for all foi5 
acts. Costumes, modem. One of the strongest plays Mr. Tubb 
has written. Martin Winn's wife left him when his daughte 
Ruth was a baby. Harold Vincent, the nephew and adopted so 
of the man who has wronged Martin, makes love to Ruth Wini 
She is also loved by Len Everett, a prosperous young farme: 
When Martin discovers who Harold is, he orders him to leav 
Ruth. Harold, who does not love sincerely, yields. Ruth dii 
covers she loves Len, but thinks she has lost him also. The 
■he comes back, and Ruth finds her happiness. 

THE OLD NEW HAMPSHIRE HOME. A Ne 

England Drama in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For seve 
males and four females. Time, two hours and a half. Costume 
modern. A play with a strong heart interest and pathos, yet ric 
in humor. Easy to act and very effective. A rural drama i 
the "Old Hofnstead" and "Way Down East" type. Two e: 
terior scenes, one interior, all easy to set. Full of strong si 
uations and delightfully humorous passages. The kind of a pie 
everybody understands and likes. 

THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comec 
iri Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For five males and foi 
females. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural e. 
terior and interior. An adventurer obtains a large sum of mon« 
from a farm house through the intimidation of the farmei 
niece, whose husband he claims to be. Her escapes from tl 
wiles of the villain and his female accomplice are both startii 
and novel. 

A WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama 
Five Acts, by Charles Townsend. For seven males and fo 
females, and three supers. Time, two hours and twenty minute 
One exterior, three interiors. Costumes easy. The hero, 
country lad, twice saves the life of a banker's daughter, whi^ 
results in their betrothal. A scoundrelly clerk has the bank 
in his power, but the White Mountain boy finds a way to chec 
mate his schemes, saves the banker, and wins the girl, 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



HOME ACRES 



A Drama in Three Acts 



By 

ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 

Author of "The Finder of Scorn,*' **Home 
Ties;* **Farm Folks;* etc. 




Ikoi 



PHILADELPHIA 
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1922 



/fZZ 



Copyright 1922 by The Penn Publishing Company 



©CIO 6 00/4 

FEB 24 1922 



Home Acres 



''V.*-' 



Home Acres 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

(In the order of their first appearance.) 

Ann Rickett, 

A dressmaker, who generally has her say 

Jane Whitman Rooted in the soil 

David Holden A young farmer 

Rose Whitman A country flower 

Lib Out of her element 

Enoch The chore hoy 

John Whitman Who has been to college 

Wilfred Clay A New Yorker 

Helen Dalton, 

A product of " The Gay White Way " 
Jim Ferguson A schemer 



ARGUMENT 



John Whitman comes back home, and is received with 
joy by his maiden aunt, Jane Whitman, who has 
been the same as a mother to him and his sister. 
Rose. John brings with him a young New 
Yorker, Wilfred Clay, his college chum, who has 
urged him to sell the farm and live in New York 
and see *' real life." John sells the farm. Act 
two passes in New York, various events lead up 
to catastrophe. The last act brings the characters 
back to the country. John has lost everything 
and is in despair, but he, Aunt Jane and Rose meet 
with a joyful surprise. The real owner of their 
old home proves to be David Holden, who wins 
Rose and is the means of bringing peace and hap- 
piness back to his old friends. 



SYNOPSIS 

Act I. — The sitting-room at Home Acres, a farm in 
Northeastern New York State, on an afternoon in 

Act IL — The new home in the city, the following 

December. 
Act III. — Back home, the first of March. 

Time of Playing : — About two hours. 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Ann Rickett. A typical village dressmaker and 
gossip. Character part. About forty or forty- 
five years of age; plain, quick and inquisitive, 
but not a caricature. In Act I she wears a 
calico or gingham dress, with hat. In Act II, 
winter dress of dark material, with wraps, bonnet, 
etc. ; has bag or dress-suit case, umbrella, and a 
fair-sized package carefully done up with brown 
paper. Act III, her best dress, with fancy neck- 
piece, ribbon and pin. 

Jane Whitman. Although unmarried, she is a 
sweet, motherly woman, of about fifty, with kind 
face, white hair plainly combed, a gentle manner 
and pleasant voice. In Act I, plain summer 
house dress ; Act II, more " dressed up," but still 
plain and modest. Act III, dark winter dress, 
bonnet and wraps. 

David Holden. A well-built, good-looking young 
country fellow, about twenty-five ; generous, good- 
natured, but strong and manly. Wears plain 
summer suit with straw hat in Act I ; in Act II, 
heavier suit, with overcoat ; Act III, same or sim- 
ilar to Act II. 

Rose Whitman. A pretty, somewhat shy, winsome, 
country girl. Act I, modest, becoming summer 

4 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 



dress, changing to the new one which Ann Rickett 
is supposed just to have hnished, this being a bit 
more fancy, but not elaborate. Act II, more 
styHsh, but not over-dressed, in afternoon costimie 
of good city style. Act III, thicker winter dress, 
with wraps. 

Lib. a New York Bowery " tough girl," from four- 
teen to sixteen years old. May have pretty face, 
but should appear rough and " smart," without of- 
fensiveness. Rather coarse voice and slangy 
manner of speech. Act I, calico dress, torn and 
bespattered with mud, stockings torn, shoes worn 
and muddy, hair awry and straw hat tattered. 
Act II, black costume of stylish French maid, 
with small white apron, white caps, etc. She 
seems in this ill at ease and out of place, con- 
stantly forgetting her new pose. Act III, at first, 
plain working dress, with large apron ; later, 
change to over-elaborate " dress-up," showing 
attempt to be stylish, with cheap jewelry. 

Enoch. Country boy of eighteen or thereabouts, 
crude and countrified, but not a " bumpkin." 
Working clothes, with baggy trousers, colored 
shirt, suspenders and wide-brimmed straw hat, in 
Act I ; in Act II, dress of fashionable butler, in 
which he appears wholly out of place. Act III, 
his new " dress up city suit," over which at first he 
wears long overcoat, with muffler and cap. 

John Whitman. Tall, handsome fellow of about 
twenty-five, showing results of education and as- 
sociation with cultured people, but not too self- 
conscious. Must be likeable, with all his pre- 
tense. Nice summer suit, straw hat in Act I ; 
well-fitting and becoming business suit, with hand- 
some top-coat, in Act II ; and for Act III, winter 
suit and heavy overcoat. 

Wilfred Clay. Good-looking, rather " swell " city 
fellow, about John's age. A villain beneath his 
suave, affable manner. Act I, elegant light sum- 
mer suit, straw hat; Act II, another elegant suit, 
for winter wear, with dressy overcoat. 

5 



PROPERTIES 

Helen Dalton. A girl of about twenty, twenty-two, 
or thereabouts ; a real " beauty," with a somewhat 
superficial charm of manner. At times shows her 
natural lack of real breeding and true womanli- 
ness. Somewhat of a coquette, inclined to be un- 
scrupulous to gain her ends, but not the accepted 
" vamp " type. Changes in final scene to a soft- 
ened, repentant and more lovable mood. In Act 
II, she is elaborately gowned, with elegant wrap 
and hat. Act III, beautiful evening gown, which 
shows off her charms to the best advantage. 

Jim Ferguson. About thirty-five years of age, a 
typical New York scheming business man, of the 
** promoter " sort. A veneer of polish, not alto- 
gether hiding his true nature, though he exerts 
himself to make a good impression. 



PROPERTIES 



Act I. Good sized, flat newspaper parcel, supposed 
to contain a dress, neatly folded ; travelling bags ; 
dress-suit case ; umbrellas ; long twig or stick, 
with string and bent pin for a fishing pole ; small, 
battered tin pail; loaf of bread and bread-knife; 
bundles. 

Act II. Paper resembling legal document; fountain 
pen. 

Act III. Knitting work; firewood; white paper torn 
in small bits for snow, seen falling outside of 
window. Artificial snow or salt to be used on 
the shoulders and heads of characters; large 
spoon ; sleigh bells ; small cabinet organ. 



NOTICE TO PROFESSIONALS 

This play is published for the free use of strictly 
amateur companies only. Professional actors or 
organizations wishing to produce it, in any form 
or under anv title, are forbidden to do so without 
the consent of the author, who may be addressed 
in care of the publishers. 

6 



Home Acres 



ACT I 

SCENE. — The sitting-room at Home Acres, a pleas- 
ant, comfortably furnished room, with door and 
window in c, open to yard, zvith a glimpse of 
trees, flowers, fence, etc., and, beyond, the road 
and fields. It is the middle of an afternoon in 
Jidy. At rise, Ann Rickett is seen outside of 
door, where she pauses, knocks, looking in; there 
is no reply, and, after a brief pause, she comes 
inside, knocking again on side of the open door, 
more loudly. She carries a good-sized, flat par- 
cel, in newspapers, over one arm. She comes 
dozvn to c, just as Jane Whitman enters R.) 

Ann Rickett. Good-afternoon, Miss Whitman. I 
knocked, but nobuddy come, so I walked right 
in, seein' the door was open. Knew it'd be all 
right, bein' me. 

Jane Whitman. Why, of course, Ann. You're 
right at home here, I hope. I heard knocking, but 
was busy fixing things for supper and couldn't 
come just at once. Been expecting you. 

Ann. Well, here I am, not more'n ten minutes late, 
if I am that. All out of breath, I rushed so, and 
it's so hot. But I'm one dressmaker that keeps 
her word, if I do say so. You can uphold me in 
that, I guess, Miss Whitman. 

Jane. Why, yes, Ann, I can, though I begun to think 
you were going to break your record for prompt- 
ness this time. Rose is in there just about having 

7 



HOME ACRES 

a fit, for fear you wouldn't get here in time with 
that dress, so 't she could get all fixed up before 
John comes. But there's plenty of time, I guess. 
i^Goes closer to Ann and lifts corner of paper, 
looking at contents.) Is it all done? Shall I take 
it in? 

(Ann partly uncovers package, giving Jane a glimpse 
of the dress which it contains, then crosses to R., 
where she pauses. Jane is c.) 

Ann. No, thanks, I will. I want to put it on her my- 
self and be sure it's all right, though I know it is. 
Fit? Well, I guess Rose Whitman '11 have one, 
and a good one, too, after all the tryin' on she's 
had and the pains I've took with this dress. If I 
do say it, I manage to keep up with the styles — 
take two fashion papers and all. But as for some 
of the styles nowadays — land, I'd expect t' go 
straight to Perdition if I s' much as cut out a 
pattern for one of 'em. 

Jane. Yes, I know — some of them are scandalous. I 
don't know what the world's coming to. 

Ann. Comin'? Goin', I should say — back to Mis' 
Adam. But I'd better go and get this dress on 
Rose, or she'll be having more fits 'n one. 

Jane. Yes, and I'll go and finish getting supper. I 
can't find Lib anywhere, just when I need her 
most, as usual. We're going to have a regular 
feast, in honor of John's coming home from col- 
lege. It's quite an event. 

Ann (still in door, r.). I should say it is. My, I sup- 
pose he's eddicated right up to the top notch. 
Won't have much use for some of us country 
folks any more, I reckon. 

Jane. Now, Ann, you know better. That isn't like 
John. Besides, he's only a country boy himself. 

Ann. Yes, but college eddicated and city visited, *n' 
all like that. Ain't been home here for — most 
two years, ain't it? 

Jane. Yes, it is, but — well, you see, he had invita- 
tions at vacation times, and took some trips with 

8 



H03IE ACRES 

friends of his. One of them's coming home with 
him for a visit — Mr. Clay. 
Ann. Huh! one of them stuck-up city fell'ws in 
dude-clothes, I suppose, that'll try t' make out 
he never was in the country — never even seen a 
cow, mebbe, 'n' want t' know which kind gives 
buttermilk — like that girl 't boarded at Crandall's 
last summer. Made me sick. As for your John, 
I've heard of country boys before with college 
eddications and citified ideas. But, my land, I'm 
forgett'n' about this dress. Rose '11 be havin' 
seven or eight fits by this time. 

{Exit Ann, r., hurriedly; Jane smiles, with a slow 
shake of her head; goes up c, to door, looks off 
and sees Dave Holden as he appears from l.) 

Jane. Why, good-afternoon, Dave. Come right in. 

{Enter Dave Holden, d. f., from l.) 

Dave Holden. Thanks, Miss Whitman. How d' do? 
I just dropped around a minute. Heard John 
was coming home this afternoon. 

Jane. Yes, he is. We're expecting him any minute. 
Enoch drove over to Thurman to meet him. 

Dave. That's good news. About time your " wan- 
dering boy " drifted back this way, isn't it? Just 
imagine being away from Chesterville — and Home 
Acres — for two years. 

Jane. Yes, it does seem a long time — longer to us 
than to him, I suppose. John has been realizing 
his life dream, you know. He always said he 
meant to go to college, and he's been. I hope it 
all turns out as he's planned. But won't you sit 
down, Dave? 

Dave. No, I guess not, thanks. Just thought I'd 
stop a minute. I don't want to butt in too soon 
after John gets here, but I was sort of anxious 
to see him. Heard a little news that sort of sur- 
prised me. I suppose, of course, you know about 
it 



HOME ACRES 

Jane. Why, I can't say, Dave. I guess I don't just 
know what you mean — aside from John's coming 
home, and, of course, that's not news exactly. 
Was there anything else? 

Dave. I — m-m — I don't know's I ought to tell you, 
if you don't know. But, of course, it can't be a 
secret from you. John wouldn't do that. 

Jane. Do what? What is it, David? 

Dave. Of course, it may be only a rumor, but I 
heard down at the post-office that John had writ- 
ten to Matt Culver about selling the farm for him. 

Jane. Not our farm — not Home Acres ! 

Dave. That's what I heard. I supposed you knew — 
it may not be true 

Jane. Of course it isn't true. John never would 
think of such a thing, and without consulting me. 
Why, I'm just the same as a mother to him — 
have been ever since his own mother died, when 
he was four years old. Sell Home Acres, that's 
been ours for years and years— his and his fa- 
ther's before him, and his grandfather's ? I would 
never consent. John never would do such a thing 
— he couldn't ! 

{She is greatly perturbed, sinks into chair, r. c, as if 
almost overcome. Dave stands c, looking at her 
sympathizingly. ) 

Dave. I'm sorry I said anything, Miss Whitman, if 
John hasn't told you. Maybe he'll think I've been 
interfering, but — well, I heard Mr. Culver telling 
it, and 

Jane. There must be some mistake. I*m sure John 
never would think of selling Home Acres. Where 
else could we live? What — why, what could we 
do? We have never known any other home. 

Dave. I wouldn't worry. Of course, John wouldn't 
do it without your consent. But I suppose with 
college life, the city, and things like that — that's 
how it acts on a young man sometimes, you know 
— a boy from the country, when he goes away 
and gets a glimpse of " real life," as they call it. 

10 



HOME ACRES 

I suppose life on the farm looks pretty small and 
narrow after that. 

Jane. Small? Narrow? Yes, I know. {She has 
risen and stands R. c, speaking earnestly, as if 
deeply moved by her emotions.) And the world 
is big and wide, and wicked and enticing. But 
John — our John. I can't believe it. No matter 
what he has seen and learned, he couldn't want to 
give up our old home. Why, my brother Henry — 
his father — would turn over in his grave; I feel 
as if he would come back and haunt us, if we 
should sell the place that has been our home for 
so many years — ours and those before us for 
generations. (She is close to Dave, now takes 
hold of his hand, or arm, pleadingly.) Oh, David, 
you — you're not deceiving me — just trying to 
make it easier by breaking it to me gently? You 
don't mean that it's true — that he has sold it — 
already ? 

Dave. No, no, Miss Whitman. I've told you all I 
know. Just that Matt Culver said he has been 
asked — by John — to find a purchaser, and he's on 
the track of one. 

Jane, Who — who is it? 

Dave. Mr. Culver said that wasn't to be known yet, 
till the deal had been made. 

Jane. The — deal — made ? 

Dave. Y-yes, that's how he put it. 

Jane. Then perhaps it isn't too late. (Rose is heard 
laughing, off r.) Hush, here comes Rose. Not 
a word to her, yet. 

Dave. No, of course not. 

{Enter Rose Whitman, r.) 

Rose. Oh, Aunt Jane, look! Isn't it scrump- 
tious ? ( Sees Dave, pauses in confusion. ) 

Oh, you here, Dave? I — didn't know 

Dave. Don't mind me. Sure it's scrumptious — just 
wonderful. And so are you. Isn't she. Miss 
Whitman ? 

Rose. Dave ! You'll think me the vainest thing. 

II 



HOME ACRES 

Dave. No, nothing like that. Just the prettiest 

Jane. I won't have you spoiHng her Hke that, Dave. 
You may admire the new dress all you like — and 
say so — but maybe it'd be just as well not to 
praise a girl to her face, even our little Rose. 
Turn around, dear. 

(Rose blushingly turns slowly about, for inspection. 
Jane examines her critically, touching her here 
and there, straightening a seam, and arranging a 
flounce. Dave puts on an exaggerated air of 
wisdom, wrinkling his brows.) 

Dave. M-m — yes, I — guess it will do. 
Jane. Do? I should say it will. It fits you per- 
fectly. Rose, and does Miss Rickett credit. 

{Enter Ann r., just in time to hear Jane's remark; 

stands R.) 

Ann. I guess it does, if I do say so. I don't believe 
John Whitman'll have any call t' be ashamed of 
his sister, even before his grand city friend. Do 
you, Dave? 

Dave. If he is, I'll be ashamed of him, that's all, and 
say he's no judge. Say, how about walking out 
and looking up the road. Rose, and seeing if we 
can't sight the procession? Want to? 

Rose. Yes, Dave, if they don't think I'll get all 
mussed. {Looks inquiringly at Jane and Ann.) 

Dave. Of course you won't. 

Jane. Run along, then, only don't go too far. They're 
liable to be here any minute now. 

{Exeunt Dave and Rose c. d. to l., he pretending to 
be much alarmed for fear of mussing her clothes, 
standing back for her to pass. She laughs mer- 
rily and runs off, followed by him. Ann goes to 
door, looking after them; Jane is r. c.) 

Ann. If they don't make just about the nicest young 
couple. I suppose it's understood? 

12 



H03IE ACEES 

Jane. What — that ? Oh, 1 can't say as it Is, 

anything definite. Of course, Dave's been sort of 
what they call " paying attention " to her for a 
long time now, and she's never seemed to object 
very much. But, then, they've been playmates, 
like, ever since they could toddle. But Dave's a 
fine boy, and I guess she could do worse. 

Ann. I guess she could. He's well off, too, with that 
money his uncle down in Washington county left 
him, with what he got from his father, too, and 
owning some shares in the graphite mines. But, 
of course, her college graduate brother may have 
higher notions for her. 

Jane. Dear me, don't let's talk about it. I've enough 
to worry about already. I — that is, I mean, what 
with John coming home, with his city friends, and 
all. 

Ann. There ! I knew something was the matter, 
the minute I come in this room. I noticed the 
change in your face, Miss Whitman, the first 
thing. I seem to have a sort of insight int' things 
— what is it they call it? — " py-sick," or something 
like that. Means " mediumistical," or something. 
'T any rate, I've got it, and I can tell something's 
come over you sence I went out of this room, not 
more'n ten minutes ago. 

Jane. Why, Ann, how could there? What could 
happen ? 

Ann. You could hear something you didn't want to 
hear, in less time than that. I don't s'pose it's any 
of my business if you have; but I'm an old friend 
of yours, Jane Whitman, and I'd be sorry if you 
was afraid to confide in me. I can keep a friend's 
secret better'n most, if I do say so, so you needn't 
be afraid. B'sides, I think I could come pretty 
near guessing what it is, anyway. 

Jane. Why, Ann, what do you mean ? 

Ann. I wa'n't going to say a word, till he'd got home 
and you was all settled down again and all. But 
if Dave Holden wa'n't saying something about 
that old skinflint. Matt Culver, and what he's up 

13 



H03IE ACRES 

to, I'll stop makin' stylish dresses and take in 
washin'. 

Jane. Then — it is common talk — it is known, and I'm 
the last to hear of it. I didn't think John could 
do such a thing. {Again sinks into chair.) It has 
spoiled all the pleasure of his coming home. 

Ann. I wouldn't believe a word of it till I had to. 
Likely it ain't so. I only heard it this mornin', in 
the post-office. Wa'n't s'posed to, then, but some 
of the men was talkin' — and, say, talk about 
women bein' gossips ! — and — well, I put two and 
two together. I'm pretty quick that way, if I do 
say so. I jest sort o' caught enough to give me 
the idee that Matt Culver had been writin' to your 
John, tryin' t' get him t' sell the farm. Must be 
a gold mine on it, or somethin'. You wouldn't 
catch Matt Culver takin' a hand in it if he didn't 
see a pretty good chance for himself. That man 
may be an elder in the church, but he's got to be 
a good deal older'n he is now to pull the wool over 
my eyes. But I wouldn't worry another bit. Miss 
Whitman. I guess John'll come to his senses 
when he sees how you feel about it. 

Jane {rising, going r.). I'll try not to. Just now I'll 
have to go and see what's become of Lib, and 
what she's up to. I guess that will occupy my 
mind for a few minutes. 

Ann. I should say it would — that one ! I don't see 
how you ever put up with such a harum-scarum. 
Miss Whitman. Land, I'd about as soon have a 
wild hyeny in the house as her. {She is up c, 
now glances off d. f. to r. ) Land, here she comes 
now. Of all 

Jane. Well, it's about time. 

(Lib suddenly runs in d. f., from r. She wears torn 
straw hat, or sunhonnet ; her hair flying ; she has 
on a short calico or gingham dress, which is torn 
and covered with mud; one of her stockings is 
down over her shoe, zvhile the other has a big hole 
in it, and she is generally " a wreck." She carries 

14 



HOME ACRES 

a small^ tin pail and a long tzvig, to one end of 
which is tied a piece of string, with a bent pin, 
making an impromptu fishing -pole,) 

Lib. Say, is supper ready? 

Jane. Supper? I should say not. You were sup- 
posed to be here and help get It. Where under 
the sun have you been ? You're a sight. 

Lib {looking herself over, carelessly). Guess I am, 
but I couldn't help it. Went fishing and fell in 
the brook. Then, comin' home, Spencer's old bull 
chased me and I tore my dress on the fence pilin' 
over, and after I got away from him I met Bud 
Hackett and him and me had a fight. I licked 
him, too— knocked him flat in the first round. 

Ann. You're a perfect little heathen. 

Lib. Oh, that you. Miss Ricketty? P'rtend you're a 
fish. 

{Flings line over Ann's head, trying to hook her hat. 
Ann dodges and screams. Lib chasing her.) 

Ann. Stop it! Stop, I say! Miss Whitman, can't 

you make her behave? 
Jane. Elizabeth, stop that and behave yourself. I 

never saw such actions. Here— give me that 

stick. 

{She sei::es Lib, takes pole and shakes her, not 
roughly, with stick uplifted. ) 

Ann. I wish you'd give her a good trouncin', Miss 
Whitman. She deserves it. She ought to be 
shut up in jail. I reckon that's the kind o' folks 
she come from 

Lib ifymg at Ann, in a rage). Shut up, vou old 
chromo ! How dare you call me a jail-bird? I'd 
like to wallop you a good one for that 

Ann {running from her). My goodness sakes alive 
she s a regular wild Injun ! Get away from me. 

(Jane again seizes Lib, holding her; Ann is up c, in 

a state of great perturbation. ) 

15 



BOME ACRES 

Jane. That will do. You go into that kitchen and 
wash yourself, and try to look a little more like a 
human being. I'll be there in a minute and see 
to you. 

Lib (as she goes r.). Well, she needn't get so fresh. 
(As Jane pushes her to exit, r.) I'll get even 
with you yet, you — you 

(Jane has hold of her, and now pushes her off R., Lib 
wriggling and looking hack at Ann, making faces 
at her, as she exits R. Jane stands R., with a sigh 
of exhaustion.) 

Jane. My, but she's a case ! 

Ann. Case? I should say she was — a case o' dyna- 
mite. I don't see why you ever keep her here, 
Miss Whitman. I wouldn't feel safe a minute. 

Jane. Oh, she isn't so bad as all that. She only has 
those tantrums. She is very sensitive on the sub- 
ject of jails, too, it seems. We've never found 
out much about her, but from things she's let drop 
I think her father must be in prison, or was, or 
something like that, and — well, maybe it's a good 
sign if she thinks it's a disgrace. 

Ann. It's in the blood. You'll see. I've always said 
those fresh-air kids they send here are only the 
city scum, and she's one of the worst I ever see. 
But you're so easy. You would keep her. 

Jane. Yes, and I'm not sorry. I hope to make some- 
thing of her yet. Poor thing, she was nothing but 
skin and bones when they brought her here more'n 
a year ago ; and I couldn't let her go back to that 
big, wicked city. I don't believe she would have 
lived two months. 

Ann. And good riddance, mebbe. Seems t' me like 
a hopeless case. 

Jane. You're too hard, Ann. No case is hopeless 
when love and kindness and good care are brought 
to bear. You rub her the wrong way. 

Ann. I should say she's the one that does the rubbin'. 
I don't see how you can uphold her. I must be 
goin'. 

i6 



HOME ACRES 

Jane. I hope you're not oitended, Ann. 

Ann. No, of course I ain't. But 1 do think you're 

too easy with her. I'll have to be goin' anyway. 

Your John'll soon be here, with his city comp'ny 

'n' I might not fit in. 
Jane. You know better. But I'll have to go and see 

about that supper — and 'tend to Lib. Come over 

again soon, Ann. 
Ann. Thanks, I will. 

{Exit Jane, r. ; Ann goes d. f., looks off, pauses, in- 
terested. Enter Enoch, d. f., from l., with dress- 
suit case, bags, and other luggage.) 

Enoch. Here they be at last. Train was late. Oh, 

how d', Miss Rickett ? That you ? 
Ann. Can't you see it ain't nobody else? (Looking 

off to L.) Land, is that John Whitman? 
Enoch. Sure. Can't you see 'tain't nobuddy else? 

'N' look at the swell guy he's brung with him. 

Talk about " citified " — gosh, wait till Lib sees 

that! 
Ann. I suppose it's that city friend of his — what thev 

call a " swell." 
Enoch. Wal, if that one swells much more he'll bust. 

(Enter d. f., from l., John Whitman and Rose. His 
arm is about her, she clinging to him. Ann 
crosses to r. c, as they come down; Enoch l.) 

John Whitman. Here I am, little sister, at last. 

Glad to see me? 
Ro.SE. Glad! Oh, John, I guess I am! My, but 

you've grown — or — something. Dear me, I — I 

know — you're " citified." 
John. But I'm the same John, to you — your big 

brother, who is mighty glad to see you and to be 

home again. Where's Aunt Jane? 

Rose. I don't know. I guess 

John (noticing Ann). Why, it's Miss Rickett. How 

do you do. Miss Rickett? 
Ann. Well, thank you, John, and glad to see you 

back again. Stayed away long enough, didn't y'? 

J7 



HOME ACRES 



John. Yes, I suppose I did. But everything looks 

about the same. 
Ann. Why shouldn't it ? We don't change here, like 

some folks. It ain't our way. 

John. Of course — I hope not 

Ann. Well, I hope you haven't, inside, as much as 

you look like you had out, John Whitman. Eddi- 

cation ain't everything. Is it, Rose? 
Rose. Why — no, not everything. 
John {who has gone up, looking off to l.). I wonder 

where Wilfred is. 
Ann. That your city friend? 
John. Yes — Mr. Clay. Oh, there he is, out by the 

gate, looking like a fish out of water. He's talk- 
ing with some one. It's — isn't that Dave Holden, 

Rose? 
Rose (goes up, looks off). Yes, that's Dave. 
John. Quite a contrast between him and W^ilfred. 
Ann. I s'pose they is, and it ain't necessarily t' 

Dave's discredit, either. He's one of the best, 

Dave Holden is. Ain't he. Rose ? 
Rose. Why, yes — of course — — 
John. I wasn't saying anything against Dave, Miss 

Rickett, but compared with Mr. Clay — well ! 

(Coming down.) Enoch, don't you know where 

to take those things? 
Enoch. Sure I do, Mr. Whitman; up to your old 

room and the one next to it. Hope they're grand 

enough for sech a swell 

John. That will do. Just take them up-stairs and 

be done with it. 

(Exit Enoch l., with luggage, grinning.) 
Rose (r.). And I'll go and tell Aunt Jane 



Ann. You might let me. I ain't in no special hurry. 
She's been watchin' long enough, John, but she's 
just had a set-to with that Lib, and they've gone 
to see about supper. I'll go and tell her. 

John. Thanks. 

(Exit Ann r.) 



HOME ACRES 

Rose. John, is it you? Are you really home again? 

John. Of course. Don't you see me? Missed me, 
have you ? 

Rose. I should say we have. I began to think you 
had forgotten us, that you would be ashamed of 
us now, with all your education and everything. \ 

John. Nonsense. You know better than that. 
Come, let me look at you. {Turning her about , 
examining her critically.) Why, you've grown to 
be a perfect little beauty, I declare you have. 
When you get some real clothes and a little more 
style 

Rose. Oh, John, and this is my new dress, that I had 
made on purpose for your coming home. Miss 
Rickett just brought it over, and — and now you 
say it isn't " real." You don't like it — you're 
ashamed of me. {Almost weeping.) 

John. Of course I like it; it's very pretty and all 
that, but — I want my little sister to have things 
worthy of her, to be able to hold her own with the 
best of them. Tell me, how would you like to go 
to the city and live, and see real life? 

Rose. I — don't know. How could I? Besides, I'm 
not sure I should want to leave here — it's home, 
and — and {Pauses, in confusion.) 

John. M'm — and is there anybody — in particular — 
whom you would be sorry to leave? {She hangs 
her head, blushing.) You don't mean Dave Hol- 
den? 

Rose. Why, n-no ; there's nothing between Dave and 

me. Of course, I like him, and Oh, John, 

I don't want to talk about it. 

John. I understand. Dave's a fine fellow, I suppose, 
and I have nothing against him, but he isn't the 
kind of man I would pick out for my sister. You 
are worthy of better things than he can give you, 
and I mean that you shall have them. 

Rose. Oh, John, you almost frighten me. 

John. There, there, don't you worry. I'll look out 
for you. {Puts an arm about her, patting her 
cheek affectionately.) 

19 



SOME ACRES 

(Enter Jane, hnrrymg in r. ; goes to John, who takes 
her in his arms, kissing her. She is almost weep- 
ing.) 

Jane. John — my boy ! You have come home at last ? 
It has seemed so long. 

John. Yes, here I am. Doesn't it look like me? 

Jane {holding him off at arm's length). Yes, you're 
the same John, and yet — there's something — some- 
thing different. I don't know just what it is, 
but 

John. Oh, I guess it's only that I'm a little more like 
the real thing than I was three or four years ago, 
Aunt Jane. 

Jane. But I don't want you to be anything " real,'* 
except my own boy — the same boy I've always 
had. I wouldn't want you to be any different. 
Would you, Rose? 

Rose. He is, though. I suppose he's more like a city 
gentleman. I declare, I'm almost afraid of him. 

John. Nonsense. Of course, I'm not the same igno- 
rant country boy I used to be. You can't expect 
that, after four years in college, and all the ad- 
vantages I've had. That wouldn't be natural, you 
know. 

Jane. I suppose not. But it wouldn't be natural for 
you to change, it seems to me. I guess I'm so 
glad to see you that I'm not responsible for what 
I say. It will make the old place seem like home 
again. Just think, John, this farm has been our 
home for generations. You wouldn't want to 
leave Home Acres and go anywhere else to live, 
would you, John ? 

John. I don't know — perhaps. But we won't talk 
about that just now. I'm too hungry, and I must 
see what's become of Wilfred. He will think I've 
deserted him. 

Jane. Oh, yes, your city friend. You go and bring 
him in, you and Rose, and I'll go and see how Lib 
is getting along. 

John. And who is Lib, pray ? 

20 



E031E ACMES 

Jane. The little Fresh Air girl, who came here for 
two weeks last summer and was so sick I kept her 
and gave her a home. I wrote to you about her. 

John. I see. Works for her " board and keep." 

Rose. Or pretends to. 

Jane. Now, Rose, you know she's quite a help, some- 
times. I give her fifty cents a week, too. She's 
saving it up to go back to what she calls *' The 
Gay Bright Way," or something like that. 

John. Broadway, she means. You ought to see that 
"Gay White Way." It would dazzle your eyes. 

Jane. I dare say it would, and I'm not anxious to see 
it. I am quite contented here, and I hoped you 
would be. 

John. Do you think I was cut out to be a farmer, 
Aunt Jane — honestly ? 

Jane. You might be something worse. Your father 
was a farmer, and his father — and his — and good 
men, even if they didn't have '' college educa- 
tions " and such line manners. 

John. Yes, but if I have an ambition to be something 
better — to make money — be rich 

Jane. We have plenty, and there's more to be made 
here. 

John. But there are other things to be considered. 
But we won't say any more about it now. I must 
look up Wilfred, and I'm anxious to see this little 
** Fresh Airer " of yours. 

Rose. I guess you'll see enough of her, once she gets 
started. 

Jane. I'd better go see what she's up to. And you 
find your friend, John. He'll think you're neg- 
lecting him — all this time. 

(Exit Jane r. John and Rose go up c.) 

John. Fm afraid he will. And I've told him so 

much about you, too. 
Rose. I don't suppose he will care much about me, if 

he's so grand and all. 
John. Of course he will. How can he help it? 

21 



HOME ACRES 

(Looking off d. f. to l.) Ah, here he comes now. 
Wilfred, this way ! 

(Enter d. f., from l., Wilfred Clay. He is a typical 
young New York " swell," faultlessly attired, hut 
in good taste, with a rather self-conscious and 
"superior" manner, though willing to make him- 
self agreeable in a somewhat condescending way.) 

Wilfred Clay. Oh, here you are. I began to won- 
der (6^^^.? Rose.) Beg pardon. 

John. This is my sister Rose, Wilfred. Rose, Mr. 
Clay. 

Rose (a hit shyly). How do you do? 

Wilfred. This is a great pleasure. I am delighted to 
meet you, Miss Whitman. I have heard so much 
of you from your brother. Such nice things. 

Rose. I'm afraid John is too partial to his " little sis- 
ter," as he calls me. 

Wilfred. Not at all, I am sure. I'm rather inclined 
to think he didn't say half enough. 

John. Wilfred, be careful. Don't turn her little 
head. 

(Wilfred plainly shows his admiration, which is at 
least half sincere, with a free and gallant manner, 
as if sure of his own powers of fascination. Rose 
seems somewhat confused, walking away, as if 
anxious to escape.) 

Rose. If you will excuse me 

(Exit Rose, d. f. to l., looking back, smiling timidly.) 

Wilfred. M'm — shy! What a treat. A really in- 
genuous, modest girl at last. 

John. You're not used to seeing them, are you? You 
frightened her just a little at first, but she'll soon 
be all right. I'm afraid you think I neglected you, 
leaving you out there so long, Wilfred. But 
" family reunions," and all that, 3'OU know. 

Wilfred. It was quite all right, old man. Fact, I 
was quite sufficiently entertained — edified, you 

22 



HOME ACRES 

might say — by that husky young yokel — a — 
Holden, I think he said his name is. The farm- 
hand hero type, you know. M'm — perhaps he's 
the kind the httle sister has been more accustomed 
to. His sweetheart — what? How about it? 

John. Decidedly not, if I have anything to say about 
it, and I think I shall have. Holden is a fine 
young fellow, I believe — manly, energetic, and all 
that, but — don't you agree with me that my blush- 
ing Rose is too good for one of his sort ? 

Wilfred. Rather! Perfect little jewel, only in the 
wrong setting. 

John. I think we can remedy that. Jewels can be 
reset, you know. 

(Enter Lib., r. She has on a large gingham apron, 
which almost envelops her. It is wet and not too 
tidy; her sleeves are rolled up and In one hand she 
has a large knife, in the other a whole loaf of 
bread. She stares at Wilfred.) 

Lib. How do. Mister? Misters, I mean. Which is 
him ? 

John. Who are you, pray? 

Lib. Go on, you ! I don't say m' prayers in th' day- 
time. I'm Lib. Who're you, and which is which? 

John. I see, you're the lady from Broadway. 

Wilfred. Indeed ! 

Lib. Aw, quit y'r guff. Y' can't fool me. I know 
y'. One of y's John, what's been away t' college 
and thinks he's too good t' live on a farm any 
more, 'n' the other's the city guy you've brung 
with y', t' see th' cows 'n' country gawks and the 
rest o' th' sights. 

John. Well, I'm John, if you want to know. 

Lib (to Wilfred). Then I s'pose you're the dude 
one? You look it. 

John. I think that will do, Lib 

Lib. ** Lib " nothin'. You got me wrong, l)eau. The 
banquet's aboul t' be served in me castle. Will 
youse condescend to p'rtake? 

23 



HOME ACRES 

{Makes an elaborate gesture, spreading out Her apron, 
waving knife in one hand and dropping the loaf 
of bread. She grabs up the bread, rubs it off with 
apron. Ann appears r., in time to see this.) 

Ann (holding up her hands, horrified). Of all 
things ! What's that crazy kid up to now ? You'd 
better go in that kitchen. Miss Whitman wants 
you. 

Lib. Aw, go chase yourself. I'm the Lady 

Ann. You're a little heathen, that's what you are. 
You ought to be spanked, and you would, too, if 
I had my way. 

Lib (flourishing knife). Oooo! I'll cut your head 
off and your heart out ! 

(She threatens Ann, who runs about, much alarmed.) 

Ann. Go 'way ! Get out ! John, save me ! 

(John and Wilfred have been standing at one side, 
laughing. John now approaches Lib; she runs to 
R., he following her.) 

Lib. Aw, who*s afraid? You ain't s' much. 

(Exit Lib r., making a face at John, and " sticking 
out her tongue" at Ann.) 

Ann. If she ain't a case. How your aunt ever lives 
with her in the house is more than I can under- 
stand. Int'rduce me to y'r friend, John. 

John. I beg your pardon. Miss Rickett, this is Mr. 
Wilfred Clay, from New York. 

Wilfred (with a somewhat supercilious assumption 
of exaggerated politeness) . Miss Rickett! I am 
overwhelmed. 

Ann. How d' do? So you're the wonderful Mr. 
Clay we've been hearing s' much about ? 

Wilfred. You embarrass me. The honor is too 
great. 

Ann. Yes, you look embarrassed, I must say. I'm 
the one that ought t' be " overwhelmed," I s'pose, 
at the great " honor." But I ain't. I've met folks 
from New York before. 

24 



HOME ACRES 

John. Why, Miss Rickett, I'm sure Mr. Clay 

Ann {going up c). So'm I — sure as I want t' be. I 
know when I'm bein' made fun of, and I know a 
real gentleman when I see one, too. Good-after- 
noon. 

{Exit Ann, d. f. to r., with great dignity, looking 
straight ahead, with her head up. John goes up 
and looks after her, annoyed, but amused in spite 
of himself. Wilfred plainly shows his anger.) 

Wilfred. The idiot! I don't see how you endure 
such people. 

John. I don't, you know — or won't have to, much 
longer. But you mustn't mind Miss Rickett. She 
is one of our local characters. 

Wilfred. Of course — she is beneath notice. 

Still I don't wonder you're glad you are 

going to get out of all this, and to take your 
charming sister to something better. {He has 
gone up c, now looks off d. f. to r.) Ah, there 
she is, with — • — 

John {going up, looking off). With Dave Holden. 
I'll call her. 

Wilfred. Looks quite like an attachment, eh? 
Rather determined-looking yoUng fellow, too. 
What if ? 

John. I'll break it off. Leave it to me. I don't in- 
tend to have my sister throw herself away on a 
common, ordinary farmer like him. 

{Exit John, d. f. to l. Wilfred stands looking out, 
smiling and shrugging his shoulders. After 
slight pause, enter John, with Rose, who seems 
to come zvith him. rather unwillingly, looking back 
and waving her hand.) 

Rose {calling). Dave! Come on in 



John. Rose, dear, don't you know you shouldn't have 
stayed out there so long? Mr. Clay is our guest, 
and 

Rose. I know, but I was only talking to Dave. 1 

25 



HOME ACRES 

was asking him about Oh, John, is it really 

true that you want to sell the farm, and go away 
somewhere ? 

John. Is that what Dave has been telling you? I 
would advise him to attend to his own affairs. He 
is altogether too much interested in what doesn't 
concern him. I'd rather you didn't have so much 
to do with him, Rose. He isn't in our — your — 
class. 

Rose. John ! how can you say such a thing ? Dave 
is my friend. I won't let you say such things 
about him. It isn't fair. {Goes to door and calls 
off.) Dave! Dave! 

John {taking hold of her arm). Come with me. I 
know what is for your good. 

Rose. Leave me alone. I'm going to see Dave. 

John. You are going to do nothing of the sort. 

{Enter Jane, r.) 

Jane. Come, children, — Mr. Clay. Dinner is ready. 

{Exit Jane, r. Rose gets free from John, who is 
part way down c, and goes up and meets Dave, 
who enters d. f., pausing with an uncertain man- 
ner, as he notices that both John and Wilfred 
ignore him. Wilfred is l. c, looking on, with 
an amused expression.) 

Rose. Dave, I want you to stay to dinner 



Dave. Thanks, but I How are you, John? 

Glad to see you back. 
John. Thanks. I hope you are well. Come, Rose, 

dinner is served. 

Rose {still hesitating). But, John 

John {leading Rose to R.). See you again, Dave. 

Come, Rose. Wilfred. 

{He leads Rose to R. ; she is compelled to go with him, 
though looking hack at Dave, appealingly. John 
urges her on, and they go off R., followed ^ by 
Wilfred, zvho looks back at Dave with a slight 
sneer, half contemptuous, and with an air of 

26 



H03IE ACRES 

triumph. Dave at first seems perplexed, takes a 
step towards r., then, as the fact dawns upon him 
that he has been snubbed, shows chagrin, though 
only half in anger. Comes part way down c, 
looks off R., raises his eyebrows knowingly, 
tosses his head slightly, as if to say " Oh, well, 
my turn will cornel" then goes up to d. f., looks 
back towards r., with a rather subdued smile and 
an air of forbearance. Exit, D. F. to l.) 



CURTAIN 



27 



ACT II 

SCENE. — Living-room or parlor of a New York 
apartment house, attractively and even elegantly, 
but not extravagantly furnished. Arched en- 
trance to hall, across l. u. e., with door beyond to 
outer corridor ; doors r. and l. Discover Enoch, 
attired as a butler, standing l. c, in a rigid, pom- 
pous attitude, arms crooked, a serious, suffering 
expression on his face. Lib, in neat black cos- 
tume of a maid, is R., looking at him and showing 
unrestrained mirth. 

Lib. If you ain't the limit. You look about as much 
like a butler as I do like — the Statoot o' Liberty. 
What you doin', standin' there like a stuffed 
pilFw, f'r, anyway? 

Enoch {in a solemn tone, without changing his con- 
strained posture). Aw — shall I announce you, 
Madam ? 

Lib. Announce your grandmother. You give me a 
pain. Come, let 'er loose. 

Enoch {changing to his natural self). Whew! that's 
what I say. What do they want t' make me act 
like a darned fool for, anyway? I'd ruther hoe 
an acre o' 'taters 'n put on them lugs f'r ten min- 
utes. Say, how much longer you think it '11 last? 

Lib. What '11 last? 

Enoch. All this. It's costin' a heap o' money, and 
I don't see where it's all comin' from. That 
money John Whitman sold the farm for can't keep 
this up f'rever. It must be 'most gone now. If 
it ain't, that Clay feller 'n' the ones he's in with 
'11 soon have it all. He's a dead beat, if they ever 
was one. 

Lib. Sure he is. I could tell that the minute I laid 
eyes on him. I know his kind — " Mud " his 
name 'd be, if I had mv way. Got Mr. Whitman 

28 



HOME ACRES 

right under his thumb, as easy as pie. Rose, too. 
Notice how she's fell f'r him? 

Enoch. Well, what's she goin' t' do? Where's Dave 
llolden, I'd like to know? Lettin' another feller 
have the hull show. I thought Dave was too much 
of a man f'r that. Makin' up to 'er the way he 
did, too. 

Lib. Yes, 'n' it was him she'd 'a' took, if her brother 
hadn't canned him. Won't let him come here, as 
it looks t' me. Bet I would, though, if I was 
him. Never took him f'r such a piker. 

Enoch. Who — Dave Holden? He ain't. Don't you 
git that int' y're funny head, Frenchy. 

Lib. Frenchy ! Say, come off with that guff. 
" Lib " 's me name, even if I have got on a '* Liz- 
ette " costumy. Look French, don't I ? Oh, la ! 
la ! Whoops ! 

(She tosses her skirts and kicks up a heel, twirling to 
R., colliding zvlth Jane, zvho enters R.) 

Jane. Dear me, child, you really must be more care- 
ful and try to improve your manners. What 
would John say? 

Lib. Aw, I don't care. Makes me tired, this " Liz- 
ette " business. And look at Enoch. Ain't he a 
freak? How much longer we got t' keep this 
up, Miss Whitman ? 

Jane. I don't know, Lib — I mean Lizette. It's John's 
idea, and I suppose we shall have to do as he says. 
Oh, how I long to be back at dear old Home 
Acres, where it was so peaceful and quiet. 
Everything seems to be hurry and pretense and 
confusion here, and it makes my head ache all 
the time. But I mustn't complain. I suppose 
John knows best. 

Enoch. I'm like you, Miss Whitman. Give me the 
farm, the pigs 'n' cows 'n' sech — as I was jest 
tellin' Lib here. 

Lib. " Lizette," if you please, Monshure. 

{Making an elaborate curtsey.) 
29 



H03TE ACRES 



Enoch. Aw, go on 

Jane. That will do, Enoch 

Enoch. " Higgins," ma'am. 

{Resuming his stiff "butler" attitude.) 

Lib (zvith a giggle). Gosh! 

Jane. I'm afraid you are hopeless, both of you — 
and me, too, for that matter. 

(Enter Rose, l.) 

Rose. Hopeless, Aunty? 

Jane. Yes, dear. I know I should call them " Hig- 
gins " and " Lizette," as John wants me to, and 
try to treat them as if they were servants and I 
a grand lady, but — oh, I can't remember, and it 
doesn't seem natural — and my head aches so. 

Rose. I know. But it will be all right after a while, 
though I'm afraid John has undertaken an im- 
possible task, trying to make a French maid and 
an English butler out of those two. 

Enoch. Right you are. Might's well try t' make a — 
a — I d' know what, out o' me 

Lib. That's what you be— a ''what?" Oh, ho! 
Look at y' ! 

Enoch. You ain't got much on me y'self, Lizzie. 

Lib. I'll " Lizzie " y' ! 

Jane. Enoch — Lib 

(Lib chases Enoch off r.) 

Rose. You're a pretty French maid, you are. 
Lib. Thanks, Mam'selle. That's what I think. 
Rose. You know what I mean. Where are all the 

fine manners John has been trying to teach you? 

Don't forget, you are supposed to be French, and 

you must be gentle and refined. 
Lib. Sure. Watch me. " Om (we) — oui!"(w^) — 

" Us— us ! " 

(Sings or hums refrain of gay tune, dances about, a 
la French dan sens e ; finally kicks up her heels and 
dashes off R.) 

30 



HOME ACRES 

Jane {sealed l.). Dear me, I don't know what we 
are going to do with her. I'm afraid she is in- 
corrigible. And poor Enoch — if ever a fish was 
out of water. 

RosK {crossing and standing by Jane, with arm about 
her shoulder). And aren't we, too, out of place? 
1 begin to think I shall never make a city lady, 
such as John wants me to be. I don't seem to 
want to be one, somehow. 

Jane. It's hard for you, too ; but you are young and 
there must be a certain fascination in it all — the 
new surroundings, the gay companions, the 
theatres — but me, poor, countrified me, with a 
love for the old home that nothing can kill. Dear 
old Home Acres, I wonder if we shall ever see it 
again. 

Rose. I'm afraid not, now. It is sold, and here we 
are, apparently to stay. 

Jane. And isn't it strange. Rose, that we cannot find 
out who bought the farm? John only tells me 
that it was sold to Matthew Culver, but he evi- 
dently bought it for somebody else, for Ann Rick- 
ett writes me that nobody lives there. 

Rose. I suppose Mr. Culver owns it and is holding 
it for a much bigger price than he paid for it. 
He's a speculator, you know. 

Jane. Yes, and Ann heard that he bought it very 
cheap — much less than it really is worth— John 
seemed so anxious to sell. If he would only buy 
it back ! 

Rose. He is too taken up with city life — thinks he is 
going to get rich here. He says everything 
looks promising. 

Jane. I am frightened. Rose dear. He has had so 
little experience in such things. I know he trusts 
Mr. Clay and takes his advice, but — I can't help 
worrying. 

Rose. Well, then you just stop it. John has had 
more experience than you think, and will look 
out for himself and us, too. As for Mr. Clay — 
he seems to be very much of a gentleman — his 

31 



HOME ACRES 

kind — and is nice to me, but — oh, Auntie, it 
doesn't seem just right about Dave. Does it? 

Jane. No. I don't see why John should forbid your 
writing to him. Dave is one of the finest boys 
in the world and an old friend of ours, and it 
doesn't seem right to drop him the way we have. 
I must speak to John about it. 

Rose. It wouldn't do any good. He says Dave is a 
rough, crude country boy, and he wants me to 
look higher. Of course, I never — promised Dave, 
exactly ; but — as you say, it isn't right to drop 
an old friend that way, and I am sure Dave feels 
it. He must wonder why I have never written to 
him. 

Jane. Perhaps it is just as well, if you can give him 
no encouragement. I am sure he wants you, and 
I don't think you could find one who would be 
better or make you happier, but of course, if you 
don't love him 

Rose {showing confusion). I — I never said that — 
I 

(The door-bell rings.) 

Jane. I wonder who that is. Dear me, I get all in 
a tremble every time the bell rings or anything, 
for fear it's some of John's grand friends, and I 
ought to put on " society manners." 



{Enter Enoch, r., zvith his " butler" air; crosses, exits 

L. U. E.) 

Rose. You mustn't feel that way. Auntie dear ; your 
"'ways " are better than those of any " society 
people " I have seen yet. 

Jane. But you've seen so few. You're just trying to 
encourage me. I know. {Enter Enoch, l. u. e.) 
Who is it, Eno — I mean Higgins? 

Enoch. It's that Clay feller {Suddenly re- 
membering his dignity.) I mean Mr. Clay, and 
they's a girl — I mean lady — with him. 

Rose. It must be Helen Dalton. She's the one. Aunt 

32 



E03IE ACRES 

Jane, that John — the one he seems to think is so 
wonderful. 
Jane. Oh, yes. You may ask them in, En — Hig- 
gins. Dear me, I never can remember. 

{Exit Enoch, l. u. e.) 

Rose. Now we must act our prettiest, I suppose. 

That wonderful Miss Dalton ! 
Jane. I'm all in a flutter. {Going to r.) I'll just 

go in the other room a few minutes first. 
Rose. But, Aunt Jane {Exit Jane, r.) Oh! — 

just me, all alone. 

{She goes up r., and is not at first noticed by Wilfred 
Clay and Helen Dalton, zuho enter l. u. e., fol- 
lowed by Enoch, who has on his stiffest " butler " 
manner.) 

Enoch {looking about, but not seeing Rose). I'll go 
tell 'em — I mean, I'll " announce " y\ 

{Exit Enoch, r.) 

Helen Dalton. Oh, Wilfred, really — how funny! 

That low comedy butler. And I suppose 

Wilfred {seeing Rose). Helen, here is (Rose 

comes down to r. c, shyly.) Miss Whitman, let 

me introduce my friend, Helen Dalton. 
Helen {with somezvhat over-effusive politeness). 

How do you do, Miss Whitman? I am so glad 

to meet you, at last. 
Rose. Thank you. {Timidly, but not awkwardly, as 

she shakes hands zvith Helen.) I am glad to 

meet you, too, Miss Dalton. 
Helen. I've heard so much of you from John — Mr. 

Whitman. He is so proud of his little wild Rose. 
Wilfred. Helen, now, — " wild." 
Helen. Of course, I meant it as a compliment — " the 

sweet wild rose," you know. I hope you are not 

offended, Miss Whitman? 
Rose. Of course not. Why should I be? I'm 

*' Rose," in name, at least, and I'm from the coun- 
try, and not a bit ashamed of it. 

33 



HOME ACRES 

Wilfred. I should say not, rather. And you are no 
longer a flower that is " born to blush unseen." 

Helen. No, indeed, for — see, she is blushing now. 

Wilfred. And something to be proud of, too — to 
have real blushes, that didn't have to be bought. 

Helen. Wilfred! how can you? Don't you mind 
him, Miss Whitman — oh, I really must call you 
Rose, may I? (Rose smiles, somezvhat abashed, 
with a slight nod of assent.) Thanks. He's just 
a tease, you know, and not at all v^orth noticing. 

Wilfred. I like that. 

Rose. I — I'm sorry my brother isn't home. I think 
he may be here very soon. I will call my aunt. 

Helen. Yes, — do. 

{Exit Rose, r. Helen, r. c, looks after her, smiling 
somewhat derisively. Wilfred is l.) 

Wilfred. Well, what do you think of her? Isn't she 
the sweet little country flower? 

Helen. *' Country " is right. It's written all over 
her. But I suppose you mean to appropriate her, 
put her in your buttonhole, so to speak, for a 
while, and then cast her aside, as you have so 
many others. Well, it ought to be easy. 

Wilfred. Sure. She's mine already. 

Helen. Be careful. The sweetest rose, even the in- 
nocent-looking one, hides a thorn, you know. 

Wilfred. Leave that to me. I know how to prune 
them, my dear. But you have a little more diffi- 
cult proposition on hand. 

Helen. Oh, you mean the brother — the handsome, 
stalwart young farmer lad. Pooh ! he's a cinch. 
He fell for me the first time we met, and I've 
made some progress since, if vou were to notice 
it. 

Wilfred. And the poor boy doesn't even dream that 
he's being " vamped." 

Helen. Wilfred, don't. I hate that word. I'm not 
a " vamp," just because I use my feminine wiles 
to coax a perfectly willing man in my direction. 
Besides, I really like John Whitman. He may be 

34 



H03IE ACRES 

from the country, Init he's a fine fellow, and no- 
body's fool. 

WiLFRKD. Well ! Behold the " vamp " being 
"vamped." What next? 

Helen. Honestly, Wilfred, sometimes I almost hate 
you. You're vile. 1 suppose I'm bad enough 
myself, to lend myself to your schemes, but — 
well, I've got to do something. I'm broke — my 
bills — I don't dare think of them. A few hun- 
dreds certainly would come in handy just now. 
You're sure he has it ? 

Wilfred. Plenty. Trust me for that. I persuaded 
him to sell that farm of his — cheap, too, as a 
certain friend of mine down-town could tell 
you 



Helen. You mean Jim Ferguson. 

Wilfred. What if I do? Jim's a good friend of 
mine and knows just how to manage things. You 
stick to us, little one, and you'll come out right. 
He expects to make a good profit on that deal. 
The farm's worth a lot more than he got it for, 
and — do you suppose that's all? Not by a long 
shot. 

Helen. What do you mean ? You're going to get all 
he has. 

Wilfred. You mean Ferguson is — all in the most 
natural way. John's crazy to invest his money — 
about ten thousand or so his father left him — and 
if we know a good thing to put it into — a " sure 
thing " — why, aren't we doing him a favor ? 

Helen. One of Jim Ferguson's " sure things." Sure 
that he gets, and the other fellow loses. 

Wilfred. Well, " such is life in a big city," you 
know. (Glances r.) Here they come. Remem- 
ber your part, my dear. 

Helen. Oh, yes. 

(Enter Rose and Jane, r.) 

Rose. This is my aunt. Miss Whitman, Miss Dalton. 

Aunt Jane, Miss Dalton. 
Jane. I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Dalton. How 

35 



BO ME ACRES 

do you do, Mr. Clay ? You haven't been up to 
see us in quite a spell. 
Wilfred. No, I've been pretty busy. 
Helen I am pleased to meet vou, Miss Whitman, i 
have heard so much about you. Wilfred has 
spoken of vou so often, and your delightful hos- 
pitality at your charming home up in the country, 
last summer. 
Tane. Home Acres, our old home. 
Helen Home Acres. What a charming name, so 
sueeestive of green fields and shady lanes, and 
brooks and apple orchards and all. I'm sure it is 
perfectly delightful. And you left it to come to 
New York to live? 
Tane Y-Yes, we— it was John's idea, you know. He 
thought it would be to his advantage, and of 
course Rose and I had to come along. I suppose 
—I hope— it will all be for the best. 
Wilfred. Of course it will. John Whitman is 
destined to be a great man, a man of wealth and 
power. There was no chance for him in the 

country. ^ . ^ ^ ... 

Jane. No— maybe not. But his father, and his 
grandfather— they were good men. Well olt, too, 
and farmers. But I don't blame John, with his 

education and all. . ^/r- Axrt.-^. 

Wilfred That's the way to look at it, Miss Whit- 
man. Isn't it. Rose? Excuse me— " Miss 
Whitman. I hope you don't mind? 

Rose Why, no, of course not. We're well enough 
acquainted for that, I guess, after all this time. 

(Rose and Wilfred have gone to R., by themselves, 
Helen engaging the attention of Jane, l.) 

Wilfred. Fm glad you feel that way, because— 
well, I want you to like me. You do, don t you 
—a little bit? 

Rose. Why, yes. You're John's friend. 

Wilfred. And yours, too. 

Rose Of course. It would have been terribly lone- 

36 



H03IE ACHES 

some here in New York — lonesomer, 1 mean — if 

it hadn't been for you. 
Wilfred. I — we — mean to show you such a good 

time you will love New York as much as we do. 
Rose. Perhaps — some time. I haven't seen so very 

much of it yet, you know. 
Wilfred. Then you must start right in. You'll have 

to let me take you around a bit. May I ? 
Rose. Y-Yes — if Aunt Jane 

(Exeunt Rose and Wilfred, r., in close conversation. 
Helen glances around, sees they are gone, and 
smiles to herself, as she and Jane come dozmi to 
c.) 

Helen. I suppose New York does seem somewhat 
strange and confusing to you, Miss Whitman. 
But you will soon get used to it, and like it, I am 
sure. 

Jane. I don't know. I guess I'm too old-fashioned, 
too — well, " countrified," I suppose you'd call it, 
The city seems so cruel, so heartless. 

Helen. Oh, my dear Miss Whitman, you mustn't 
say that. We have hearts here, only everything 
is different. 

Jane. It was a great sorrow to me when John in- 
sisted on selling our old home. It was like tear- 
ing up old roots — heart-roots — to me, and I'm 
afraid I shan't stand it very long, transplanted 
into this cold, hard soil. I — I'm all in a muddle, 
sort of, still. But I'm talking too much. I hope 
you'll excuse me. It wasn't me you came to see. 

Helen. But it was you, too, though to be sure, it 
was Mr. Whitman we sought. I believe Wilfred 
— Mr. Clay — has some business appointment to 
arrange for him, and as he had left the office 
down-town, where we expected to find him, we 
came on up here. 

Jane. I expect him any minute. (She has gone up 
near l. v. e., now looks off.) I believe this is him 
now. Yes, it is. 

37 



HOME ACRES 

{Enter John, l. u. e. He shows pleasure upon see- 
ing Helen.) 

John. Good-afternoon. This is a pleasant surprise. 

So you and Aunt Jane have become acquainted, 

Helen? That's nice. 
Helen. Yes, and already she has quite won my 

heart. 
Jane. Now, Miss — a — dear me, I forget your name 

already. 
John. Miss Dalton. 
Helen. Helen. 
Jane. Oh, yes, of course — Miss Dalton. You're too 

kind, my dear. And now — you'd like a cup of tea, 

maybe, and perhaps a bite. I'll go and see about 

it. 

{Exit Jane in somewhat of a ''flutter," e. Helen 

and John are r. c.) 

Helen. She's a dear old soul. 

John. Yes, indeed, as dear to me as my own mother 
could have been had she lived. You understand, 
of course — having always lived in the country, 
and 

Helen. No excuses for her, please. Such genuine- 
ness and real womanly charm are a treat. And 
that dear little sister of yours — a perfect treas- 
ure. 

John. You have met her? 

Helen. Yes. She and Wilfred are in there, now; 
spooning, I suppose. 

John. No, not Rose. She doesn't know how to 
" spoon," as we understand it. 

Helen. Well, I guess Wilfred Clay can teach her a 
thing or two. 

John. If I thought — but no, Wilfred is sincere. 

Helen. Certainly he is. That was only -my flippant 
way of putting it. But she does need " bringing 
out," you know. 

John. Y-Yes, I suppose so. But, tell me, how did 
you happen to come way up here? I expected 
to meet you at Ferguson's office. 

38 



HOME ACRES 

Helen. We went there, but he said you had not 
shown up, or 'phoned or anything, so we skipped 
into the subway and came up here. Haven't you 
seen him? 

John. Yes, you had no more than left when I got 
there. He came up with me — is out there. I 
didn't hke to take such an important step with- 
out consuhing my aunt and Rose. It is partly 
Rose's 'money, you know\ At least, I would need 
hers, too, and Aunt Jane must give her consent. 

Helen. So that's it? I supposed you were your own 
boss? 

John. So I am. But Ferguson's deal requires more 
capital than I can put up myself. It's quite an 
undertaking, you know, but Wilfred says it's sure 
to succeed and make me a rich man. 

Helen. Then it is. If he recommends Ferguson and 
advises you to go into it, you may be sure it's all 
right. Wilfred's putting his own money into it, 
and I, too — my pittance. That mine is sure to 
yield enough to make us all rich. So Wilfred 
says — and he knows. 

John. Well, well, what a little business woman it is. 
Who would have thought that pretty head ? 

Helen. No, I'm not. It is AVilfred who has helped 
and advised me, and who is doing the same for 
you. 

John. Yes, I know; he is a real friend. And — if it 
does turn out as we expect — if I get a start — then, 
Helen — may I hope? 

Helen. To be a rich man ? Indeed you may. 

John. Yes, but more than in money — in winning you. 
It's you I want, Helen — you ! 

Helen. And you think me so mercenary that you 
must be rich first. Oh, John ! 

John. Helen ! 

{He is about to embrace her zvhen Lib enters suddenly, 
R. ; stops, zvith a stifled exclamation, clapping her 
hand over her nionlh. They turn, seeing her. 
John is annoyed, Helen only smiling.) 

39 



EOME ACRES 

John. Lib! Where did you come from? 

Lib. Say, what you " Libbin' " me fer? 'Twas you 

said I was f be '' Lizette." 
John. That will do. {Motioning toward l. u. e.) 

There's a gentleman out there. Go and show him 

in. 
Lib. We, we, Monshure. Sure thing. 

{Exit Lib, l. u. e.) 

Helen. Is that the " French maid " ? 

John. Please don't laugh, Helen. It's not so funny 

to me. 
Helen. But that one — and the butler ! Why not the 

real thing? 
John. They will come — later. 

{Enter l. u. e., Jim Ferguson, who is well dressed, 
and with more or less success assumes the air of 
a real gentleman, though his own coarseness — 
even " toughness " — at times shows beneath his 
superficial veneer.) 

Jim Ferguson {as he comes down to c. ; John is r. c, 

Helen, r.). Ah, good-afternoon, Mr. Whitman. 

How d' do. Miss Dalton? Didn't know you was 

here. 
Helen. Yes, we came up-town a few minutes ago, 

Mr. Clay and I. I will tell him you have arrived. 
John. Thank you, Helen. In the library, I think. 
Helen {going up r.). I know. 

{Exit Helen, r. John motions Ferguson to a seat, 

L.) 

John. Sit down, Mr. Ferguson. Clay will be right 
in, then we can talk things over. I hope every- 
thing is all right. 

Fergu.son {sitting l.). Couldn't be better. Got fine 
reports, only this morning. Best investment ever. 
Good as gold. 

John. Fm taking the advice of my friend, Mr. Clay, 
you know. I think I can trust him implicitly. 

40 



HOME ACRES 

Ferguson. Rather. Fine fellow, Clay. Perfect 
gentleman. Putting his own money into it, you 
know. Guess that shows. 

John {he is also sitting, r. c). I feel sure it does, or 
I wouldn't care to risk it. Not only my own 
money, you know, Mr. Ferguson, but what my 
sister has also. She is not of age, and, as mv aunt 
IS her guardian, according to my father's will, 
her consent is necessary. 

Ferguson. Sure. But women don't understand such 
thmgs. What's the use of explaining too much ? 

John. I have never deceived her. I couldn't do that. 

Ferguson. Course not. Wouldn't want y' to. Just 
a little diplomacy. Suppose you leave it to me. 
I can manage it. All it needs is for her to sign a 
paper, and it'll be O. K. Fll fix that, if you'll 
leave her to me a few minutes. 

John. But— Fm not sure — you see, if 

Ferguson. Oh, well, of course— if 'you don't want to 
risk it. Plenty of others. We onlv wanted t' let 
you in on a good thing. One chance in a million 
but — It's up t' you. ' 

John. I have decided— on Mr. Clay's advice. I will 
call my aunt. (He is about to go r., when Lib 
enters, l. u. e.) Lizette, tell Miss Whitman I 
wish to see her, here. 

Lib (crossing to r., with a searching look at Fergu- 
son). Sure — I mean " we, we." 

(She goes to r., but pauses, still looking at Ferguson 
scremmg up her eyes and glaring at him keenly 
He has taken from his pocket a legal-looking pa- 
per, which he is examining, not noticing her.) 

John. Well, why don't you do as I told you^ 
Lib. Sure I will. ^ ' 

(Exit Lib, r., looking back at Ferguson.) 

Ferguson. It's all right here. All we have to do Is 
to get your aunt to sign her name That o-ives 
you authority to arrange the whole matter, with 

41 



ff03IE ACRES 

my assistance, you know. It's going to be a lucky 

strike for you, my boy. The chance of a Hfetime. 
John {going l. ). I have a httle private room in here, 

a sort of den. Suppose you go in there, and I 

will send my aunt to you. 
Ferguson. Just as you say. 

(John shows Ferguson ojf l., following him. Enter 

Jane and Lib, r.) 

Jane. I thought you said John was here, Lib, — that 

he wanted to see me. 
Lib. He was and he did. {Motioning l.) Guess 

they're in there. But I want to put you wise to 

that guy, Miss Whitman. 
Jane. " Wise "—" guy" ? What sort of talk is that? 

What do you mean? 
Lib. I mean that one that's in there with 'im. I 

don't like his looks. I've seen his kind b'fore. 

He's a slick one all right — a bunco-steerer, or I'll 

eat m' new Sunday suit. 
Jane. Of all things ! What under the sun are you 

talking about? 
Lib. That guy in there, that's up to some shyster 

business. Don't y' s'pose I know a thing 'r two? 

I've seen a few bums that dress up and try t' pass 

'emselves off as big ones. Don't you have nothin' 

t' do with that one, even if that blessed John of 

yours 

Jane. Lib ! how dare you ? That's quite enough. I 

have implicit faith in my nephew and shall do as 

he says. 
Lib. Oh, — all right. {The door-bell rings, off 

L. u. e.) I didn't mean t' butt in. 
Jane. Such language! I thought you were improv- 
ing. 

(Enter Enoch, r., crossing.) 

Lib. Hey, old slow-poke, it's about time you an- 
swered some bells 'r somethin'. 
Enoch. Mind y'r own business, Frenchy. 

42 



E03IE ACRES 

(Lib dashes at him, hut is hindered hy Jane. Exit 

Enoch, l. u. e.) 

Jane. Child ! will you never learn to act like a lady ? 
Lib. I guess not — a " French " one. La, la ! 

(Jane shakes her head, despairingly. She is r.. Lib, 
u. L., looking off. Enoch enters suddenly, much 
excited, colliding with Lib, who gives him a 
push.) 

Enoch. Who d' you s'pose 'tis? 

Lib. King o* Chiny 'n' all his queens. 

Enoch. Naw. More'n that. Oh, Miss Whitman, 

who d' you s'pose? 
Jane. Why, Enoch, I don't know. Who — what do 

you mean ? 
Enoch {almost too excited to talk). It's — it's 

{Enter in a rush, l. u. e., Ann Rickett. She carries 
a bag and several packages, which she thrusts into 
Enoch's arms, as she comes down. Enoch drops 
several of them, Lib picks up one or two, but 
drops them again as she recognizes Ann.) 

Ann. Miss Whitman ! Here I am. Don't you know 
me? 

Jane. Ann — Rickett ! Is it you ? 

Ann. What's left of me, and I guess that ain't 
more'n a^ remnant. Of all the pullin' and haulin' 
and pushin' and crowdin' ! ]\Iy goodness, I never 
was so glad of anything as I was t' get out of that 
hole in the ground where they take you in that 
train. I was afraid of my life. And such a trip ! 
I thought we — I — would never get here. Ain't 
you glad to see me ? 

Jane. Glad? Oh, Ann! 

(Jane, who seems just recovering from her surprise, 
now seizes Ann's hand and shakes it cordially.) 

Ann. I thought y' would be. My, you're looking all 
dragged out. I don't believe it agrees with you 
here. 

43 



HOME ACRES 

Jane. Fm all right, and seeing you will be as good 
as a tonic. But I never! Such a surprise. When 
did you leave Chesterville, and how did you hap- 
pen to come way down here to New York, and 
how did you ever hnd the way? I declare, I'm 
so glad to see you I could cry. 

{She sinks into chair, r. c, almost overcome.) 

Ann. Then do. It would do y' good. 

(Enoch and Lib, up r. c, have been looking on, show- 
ing signs of great interest.) 

Enoch. And how's everything on the old farm? 
Lib. Is the grass still green and the brook still wet? 
Ann. Land, Miss Whitman, what have you done to 

'em? They look like the comic pictures in the 

Sunday paper. 
Jane. M'm — well, you see, it was John's idea. 

Thev're our " butler " and " French maid.'' 
Enoch {with a stiff bow). Higgins. 
Lib (with a curtsey). And Lizette. 
Ann. Of all things! So that's what New York's 

done to y' ? It's even worse 'n I expected. I hope 

it don't effect me that way. 
Jane. Sit down, Ann. You must be tired. (To 

Enoch and Lib.) You take her things in the 

other room, till I arrange where to put her. I 

suppose you're going to make us a good visit? 

(Enoch and Lib gather up Ann's satchel and bundles. 
She goes and takes one of the bundles.) 

Ann. I'll take this one. 

(Exeunt Enoch and Lib, r., with articles, laughing, ' 

etc.) 

Jane. Now tell me, how is everything, and every- 
body? (They sit.) 

Ann. About the same. Of course, your place isn't 
though, with you gone. 

44 



HOME ACRES 

Jane. Dear old Home Acres. Don't you know yet 
who bought it ? 

Ann. No. They's a man and his wife live there, 
and that old Matt Culver seems to have some- 
thing to do with it. It's kept up all right, but — 
oh, dear, it needs you, Miss Whitman. 

Jane {wiping her eyes). And I need Home Acres. 
Oh, Ann, it's killing me here. I'm afraid — ■ 
frightened 

Ann. I wouldn't worry. It may all be for the best, 
after all. It must be, some way. I wouldn't give 
up to it. Here's a few little things I brung you, 
in this bundle. I thought they might taste good — 
like home, sort of. 

Jane. Oh, Ann, what is it? 

Ann. Just a few things — a can o' my apple-butter, 
some o' my carraway cookies, an apple 'r two, and 
a few little things like that. I told Dave I 
thought they might seem good. 

Jane. How is Dave ? How I would like to see him. 

Ann. Well, you can. That's another thing I brung 
— him. 

Jane. You — he's here, too — Dave Holden ? 

Ann. Of course he is. That's one thing made 
Enoch so excited. He's out there, waitin' to 
s'prise you. Shall I call him in? 

Jane. And you didn't tell me. Dave — Dave 

{She has risen, goes up to l. u. e., just as Dave enters; 
meets him, fairly " fluttering " zvith excitement, 
grasping both his hands. They come dozvn c.j 

Dave. Miss Whitman ! How are you ? 

Jane. Oh, Dave ! I — I'm so glad to see you. You 
look just like the country — no, I don't mean that, 
of course, but 

Dave. I know what you mean, Miss Whitman. We 
just thought we'd give you a little surprise. Miss 
Rickett and I. I had been planning to come to 
New York for a long^ time, and as she wanted to 
come, why, I helped her along. 

Ann. And it's a good thing he did, or I guess I'd 'a' 

45 



HOME ACRES 

been kidnapped and run over and blowed up and 
everything else, by this time. Of all places, this 
is like all the places I ever saw 'r heard about 
shook and jumpled up t'gether. My head won't 
stop buzzin' around for six months. But where's 
Rose, and John, and how are they? 

Jane. They are well, and — Rose is in there with — 
she has some company just now. 

Ann. Some of her new city friends, I suppose. 

Jane. Mr. Clay. You remember him. 

Ann. I guess I do. So he's hangin' around? 

Dave. Clay. 

Jane. Yes, Dave, but — I don't think she really cares 
for him, in her heart — but John — oh, I have been 
so miserable, so unhappy. My whole life is 
changed — I don't see anything left to live for. 

Dave. It can't be so bad as that. Miss Whitman. 
There's always hope. 

Ann. Sure. It's always darkest just before the sun 
comes up, y' know. 

(Enter John, l.) 

Jane (rising). Here's John now. John, see who's 
here. 

John (greatly surprised, not particularly pleased, hut 
with some cordiality). Why, if it isn't — Miss 
Rickett — Dave. This is quite a surprise. 

(They shake hands,) 

Dave. I suppose it is, John. I had to come to New 

York on a little business, and Miss Rickett 

thought she'd come along. 
ToHN. "Business" — in New York, — you? 
Dave. Strange, isn't it? But don't worry, it won't 

keep me here long. 

Jane. Why, John, I'm sure 

John. I didn't mean — but I didn't know you had any 

business interests here, Dave. 
Dave. You're not the only Chesterville boy who can 

branch out. Where is Rose? I'd like to see her. 

46 



HOME ACRES 

Jane. Of course. And she will be delighted. I'll 
call her. 

John. Just a minute, Aunt Jane. Perhaps Dave and 
Miss Rickett would be willing to go in the library 
for the present. I wish to speak to you. {To 
the others.) If you will excuse us? 

Dave. Certainly. 

John. Will you show them, Aunt Jane, and then 
come back for a minute? 

Jane. Yes. Right in here, Dave. Ann. 

Ann. Come on, Dave, us country folks '11 have to 
take a back seat here in the city, I suppose. 

Jane. Now, Ann 

Ann. Oh, I ain't mad 'r anything, but I don't have 
t' be hinted at twice. I hope you won't be long, 
though. Miss Whitman, 'cause I've got so much 
news to tell y', about Chesterville 'n' all, 't I'm as 
full of news as a tick is of feathers, as you 
might say. 

{Exit Jane, explaining to Ann, who follows her 

'off R.) 

John. Seems as much inclined as ever to speak her 
own mind, doesn't she? 

Dave. Well, I guess you know Ann Rickett. 

John. Certainly. Not worth noticing. She didn't 
even let us know she was coming, so far as I 
know. 

Dave. Guess it was too sudden. She heard I was 
coming and wanted to come with me. I imagine 
your aunt is glad to see her, anyway. 

John. No doubt. Aunt Jane wnll never be weaned 
away from the country, I'm afraid. 

Dave. As you have been, I see, John. I don't sup- 
pose we'll ever see much more of you in Chester- 
ville. 

John. No. New York is a little more to my liking. 
My sister and I are of one mind there. 

Dave. So Rose likes it here, too? 

John. Rather. She is getting to be a real little city 
lady. It was in her, you know. 

47 



HOME ACRES 

Dave. It's a true heart that's in her, John — a noble 
nature — and they tell anywhere. 

{^Goes R. ; John looks after him, with a faint smile, 
going to u As Dave reaches r., Rose enters and 
he pauses.) 

Rose. Oh, Dave, is it really you? I am so glad to 
see you. 

{She shakes hands z^ery cordially zmth Dave. John, 
at L., glances at them, shrugs his shoulders, then 
exits, L.) 

Dave. And I can't say how glad I am to see you. 
Let me look at you — good. 

(They sit on sofa, l., and he looks searchingly at her.) 

Rose. Don't I look just the same, Dave? I didn't 

mean to change. 
Dave. I hope you haven't changed enough to go 

back on your old friends. It began to look that 

way. 
Rose. It wasn't because I didn't think of you, Dave. 

I meant to write — I wanted to — but John 

Dave. I thought that was it — John. He wants you to 

follow his example, I suppose. I'm not much of 

a man, compared with some of the fine New York 

" gentlemen " he knows. 
Rose. Dave, don't. You hurt me. 
Dave. Forgive me. I didn't mean to do that. But 

you must acknowledge, it has been pretty hard 

for me — hard to understand. 
Rose. Yes, I know. And hard for me, too. 
Dave. Rose ! 

(He seems about to lose control of himself, grasping 
her hand, hut desists as Jane enters, r. Rose 
rises; also Dave.) 

Jane. Isn't it fine to see Dave again, Rose? But I 
thought John was here. He wanted to see me. 

48 



HOME ACHES 

Dave. I think he is in there, Miss Whitman. 

(Motions L.) 

Jane. Yes, with that man. It's a Httle matter of 
business of some kind, I beUeve. Some paper he 
wants me to sign. 

Dave. A paper, Miss Whitman? For you to sign? 

Jane. Yes. I don't know just what, but I know it's 
all right or John wouldn't tell me to do it. You 
two run along, and I'll soon be through and we'll 
have something to eat. Go in where Ann is. 

Rose. Mr. Clay and Miss Dalton, too. Come and 
meet them, Dave. 

Dave. You go, Rose, and I'll follow in a minute. 
I want to speak to Miss Whitman first. 

Rose. Don't be long. 

(Exit Rose, r. Dave and Jane are c.) 

Jane. You have something to tell me, Dave? About 
the old place? Do you know 

Dave. No. It's this, Miss Whitman — do you know 
what paper it is you are to sign, what it is for? 

Jane. Why, no, not exactly. But John is going into 
some business of some sort — an investment, I be- 
lieve — oh, it's all right, Dave. It's something Mr. 
Clay knows all about and — I'm just to put my 
name down as a witness or something. 

Dave. If you'll take my advice. Miss Whitman, you 
won't sign it ; not without knowing Just what you 
are doing. You may be sorry afterwards. 

Jane. Why, Dave ! Don't you think I trust John ? 

Dave. Y-Yes, of course, but 

(Enter John, l.) 

John. I thought you were coming. Aunt Jane. Mr. 

Ferguson hasn't much time. 
Jane. I was just coming, John. You see, I hadn't 

seen Dave in so long 

John. I think he will excuse you. Come. 

Dave. Wait a minute, please. Your aunt tells me, 

49 



HOME ACRES 



John, that you wish her to sign some paper. She 
doesn't even know what it is, or what it means. 
Do you think you ought to expect her to do that? 

John. What is that to you? 

Dave. It is enough to me, as an old friend — of hers, 
if not of yours. And so much a friend of your 
sister, John, that I hope — I expect — to make her 
my wife. 

John. Oh, you do? Then you are doomed to dis- 
appointment. My sister has other plans. 

Dave. You have other plans for her, you mean. It 
will be for her to decide that. 

John. She has decided, and so have I. I've decided 
that I shall put up with no more of your interfer- 
ence. It's not the first time you have intruded 
in my affairs, Dave Holden, but I warn you that 
it had better be the last. 

Jane. Why, John — Dave 

{Enter Rose, r., just in time to hear the above, paus- 
ing R., unnoticed and showing dismay. She is 
followed by Ann, who also stands up r.) 

John. Then let him understand that he was not in- 
vited here, and that he is not wanted. Do you 
mean to take his word or mine ? 

Jane. Why, John dear, what do you mean? 

John. Will you do as I want you to do, or will you 
let this country friend of yours dictate to you? 

Dave. Yes, her friend — a real one — and from the 
country. Miss Whitman, you understand. You 
believe in me? 

Jane. Of course, Dave — of course I do — but if John 
says 

John. I say we have had enough of this. Come, 
Aunt Jane — show him that he cannot run this 
family. (Calling off l.) Ferguson! 

(Rose, coming down, for the first time seen by John, 

Dave and Jane.) 

Rose. John! What is it? What is the matter? 

50 



HOME ACRES 

John. It means, Rose, that this man, Dave Holden, 
says you have promised to be his wife. Is that 
true? 

Rose. Why, John — Dave — I 

Dave. Isn't it true. Rose? Won't you make it true? 

(She- hesitates, looking appealingly at John, who 
scowls at her, warningly. She turns sadly from 
Dave, to Ann, who comes down, putting an arm 
about her.) 

Ann. John Whitman, you ought to be ashamed of 
yourself. If you ain't, I'm ashamed of you. It's 
a sin and a shame, if I do say so — trying to make 
your ow^n sister marry one man when she loves 
another. 

Jane. Ann ! 

Ann. I don't care. New York has gone to his head. 
He'd sacrifice his own sister, and you, too. It's 
time somebody told him a thing or two, and I'll 
speak my mind if he turns me out of the house 
for it. 

(Enter Wilfred and Helen, r. ; they stand up r., 
looking on, very much interested. John is l., 
Jane, c, Ann and Rose, r. c.) 

John (ignoring Ann). Are you ready to do as I 

wish. Aunt Jane? 
Jane. Yes, John. 

(Enter Ferguson, l.) 

John. Have you the paper, Mr. Ferguson? 
Ferguson (taking paper from pocket). Sure. Right 

here. 
John (taking paper, opening it). You have only to 

sign your name, Aunt Jane. 
Ferguson (producing fountain pen, ready for use). 

Right here, ma'am — on that line. 
Jane. I know it must be all right, John, if you say so 

— of course. 

(She is about to sign paper, at table, l. c.) 

51 



HOME ACRES 

Ann. Do you know what's in it, Miss Whitman — - 

before you sign it? 
Dave {coming to l. ). No, she doesn't, and I advise 

her not to sign it. 
John. And once more I advise you to mind your own 

business. 

(Jane starts to sign paper; Dave goes to her, as if to 

restrain her.) 

Dave. Miss Whitman — think 



John (taking firm hold of Dave and pushing him 
back). Go — get out 

Rose (crossing to Dave, but intercepted by John). 
John 

Ann (again comforting Rose, zvho turns to her, over- 
come). You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
John Whitman. You are making a pig-headed 
fool of yourself, if I do say so 

John. Ha ! you ! (He sneers at her, then turns again 
to Jane.) Now. 

(He goes to table, opening paper and spreading it out; 
Ferguson gives Jane the pen; she takes it, 
tremblingly, hesitates, but is prompted by John, 
and slowly writes her name on line indicated by 
Ferguson, who smiles to himself, zmth half-con- 
cealed triumph.) 

Dave. I think you will regret this day, John Whit- 
man. When you do, remember that I tried to be 
your friend — and theirs. 

(He starts up c, with an appealing glance at Rose, 
who is about to go to him, but is again hindered 
by John, who steps between them. Jane, as if 
in a daze, looks on, goes over and takes Rose in 
her arms.) 

Jane. What does it mean? Oh, John — Dave — my 
boys! 

(Exit Dave, l. u. e.) 

52 



HOME ACRES 

(Rose buries her head on Jane's shoulder, sobbing; 
they stand c. ; Ann, r. c, glaring at John indlg- 
nantly. Wilfred and Helen, still standing up 
R., look on with half-amused and satisfied expres- 
sion. John is l. c, turned partly from the others, 
his face and attitude denoting triumph, not un- 
marked by a trace of doubt. Ferguson, l., smiles 
knowingly, as he folds the paper and puts it in his 
inside coat pocket.) 



CURTAIN 



53 



ACT III 

SCENE. — Same as Act I, on evening early in the fol- 
lowing March. The doors are closed and curtains 
drawn across window. Discover Ann Rickett, 
seated by table, r., knitting. After slight pause, 
enter Enoch, d. f., well wrapped up, with cap 
pulled down over ears and tippet wound about 
neck. He has an armful of firewood; his cap and 
shoidders are covered with snow. He crosses to 
L. c, where he pauses as Ann speaks. 

Ann. Snowin', ain't it, Enoch? 

Enoch. I should say 'tis, t' beat the band. Looks 
like a reg'lar blizzard comin' on. 

Ann. My sakes, does it? I hope they don't get 
snowed in, on the way from Thurman. Ben 
Weaver took his big sled and team, but if the 
roads drift the way they do sometimes. (She 
rises, goes to window in f., raising curtain. Snow 
is seen falling thickly outside.) My, it is! You 
goin' t' make up a fire in the front room, Enoch ? 

Enoch. Yes, ma'am. He told me to. I'm goin' t' 
start it right away. 

Ann. All right, I would. A good one, too, 'cause 
they'll be chilled through when they get here. I 
declare, it seems like a dream, don't it? I can't 
hardly believe it's true. 

Enoch. Nor me neither. Miss Rickett. Gosh, won't 
they be s'prised ? 

Ann. S'prised? I d' know how Miss Whitman'll 
stand it. And jest think, she ain't got the least 
idee. But for goodness' sake, Enoch, don't stand 
there holdin' that wood. Your arm'll break. 

Enoch. Wal, it is gittin' kind o' heavy. Guess I'd 
better go 'n* start that fire. 

{Exit Enoch, l. Ann, again seated, knits, rocks and 
sings softly to herself. There is a pause, then Lib 
puts her head in, r.) 

54 



HOME ACRES 

Lib. Say, Miss Rickett, come 'n' see 'f I've got 
enough frostin' on this cake. 

Ann. My goodness, be you jest frostin' that cake? 
It'll never get hard in time for 'em t' eat it. 

Lib {entering. She has on a large apron, and she 
holds a spoon, zvhich is sticky with icing for a 
cake). Then I reckon it'll be good 'n' sticky. 
'F not, I can go out 'n' get some real frost. Plenty 
of that, outdoors. 

Ann. I guess you needn't bother. It'll have to do. 
How does it seem. Lib — I mean " Lizette " — bein' 
back on the old farm ? 

Lib. Say, don't y' " Lizette " me. I had enough o' 
that French business. I'm glad enough t' be jest 
plain Lib again, now 't I'm back here. Gee, I 
never thought I'd be glad t' leave little old New 
York and come back to this backwoods dump 

Ann. Such talk ! I guess Chesterville ain't a "dump." 
You're as much of a heathen as ever, if I do say 
so. I hoped all you'd been through 

Lib. We ain't through yet. The best part's to come, 
if I get my guess. Say, but didn't that Mr. Mud 
get it in the neck ? 

Ann. "Mud?" Oh, you mean Clay. Well, it serves 
him right. But it was pretty hard on John Whit- 
man 'n' his aunt 'n' sister. It almost killed them 
— leastwise it did Miss Whitman. I expect she's 
jest about done for, poor soul. It'll be like heaven 
to her t' get back to Home Acres. 

Lib. Huh ! Funny kind o' heaven, this place. But I 
guess they's worse. And, say, when John finds 
out who's here waitin' for him 

Ann. John? 

Lib. Oh, well, "Mr." Whitman, then. Where is 
she? 

Ann. Up-stairs. She's gett'n' all fixed up. I've got 
on my new dress, too. (Rising.) How d'you like 
it? (Turns about for inspection.) 

Lib. Swell. Guess Mis' Vanderasterbilt ain't got 
nothin' on you. You look like thirty cents — I 
mean dollars. 

55 



H03fE ACRES 

Ann. You impudent thing ! You'd better go V fin- 
ish frostin' that cake 'n' see 'f you can't find a few 
manners somewheres. 

Lib. S'pose I had. I don't see any layin' around 
loose in this room. 

Ann. That'll do. Go on. 

{Enter Enoch l.) 

Enoch. Hello, Lizette. Bon sour. 

Lib. Oh, shut up, y' fresh thing! I guess I made a 

better French maid than you did English butler. 

You !— ha— " Hig-gins ! " 
Enoch {crossing to her). Hey, I'll make you pay for 

that. 

{He attempts to kiss her. She slaps him and runs 

Ann. Well, of all things ! Shinin' up to her, be y'? 

Enoch. Sort of. I didn't manage t' git very brilliant 
yet, but she's b'gun t' fan the flame, so I guess it'll 
flare up in time. 'Tain't quite s' easy startin' a 
fire in a gal's buzzum as 'tis in the wood-stove. 

Ann. Well, of all things ! If you ain't gett'n' poetic. 
I s'pose that's what New York done to y'. 

Enoch. Done more'n that. Wait till y' see my new 
suit. I guess me 'n' Lib'll s'prise 'em. We saved 
up 'n' bought 'em jest b'fore we come away, 'n' 
never told a soul. Guess mebbe they'll do t' git 
married in, 'f they keep that long. 

Ann. Good land, you fight hard enough as 'tis. 
What's th* use gett'n' married? 

Enoch. Oh, jest so's t' have it legalized. 

Ann. Of all things! You p'rposed to her yet? 

Enoch. N-no, not 'xactly. She won't give me a 
chance. I sort o' brooched the subjec', that night 
I took her to the Hippydrome 'n' bought her a 
lunch int* Childses' afterwards, but she said if 
that was what I spread m'self so f'r, I'd better go 
V do a ** Steve Brodie," whatever that is. 

Ann. Land, I don't know half she's talkin' about 
sometimes. She might's well be talking Greek 'r 

56 



HOME ACRES 

Hindoo, as that New York lingo o' hers. But I 
guess you'd better be doin' the rest o' your chores, 
'n' then go up and put on that wonderful new suit 
o* yours. Tell Lib f hurry, too. 

Enoch. All right. We'll both git a hustle on. 

Ann. You'd better, 'cause they're liable t' be here al- 
most any time now. That is, if the roads ain't 
drifted too bad. 

i^Exit Enoch r. Ann goes up and again lifts curtain, 
looking out, and disclosing snow still thickly fall- 
ing. There is a knock on d. f. Ann drops cur- 
tain, goes and opens door, admitting Dave. He 
wears heavy overcoat and a cap, which are white 
with snow.) 

Dave. Good-evening, Miss Rickett. 

Ann. Good-evening, Dave. You didn't need to 

knock. Isn't this your 

Dave. Sh ! don't say that. It isn't. 

(Ann comes down to l. c. ; Dave removes coat and 
cap, shaking snow from them; places them on 
chair, or hangs them, up r.) 

Ann. Oh, Dave, it's wonderful. You're the best man 
that ever lived, if I do say so 

Dave {coming down to r. c. ). Hold up. {Making 
motion with hand, as if to push her away.) I'm 
nothing of the sort. I'm the most selfish, calcu- 
lating man in the world, that's what I am. 

Ann. Why, Dave Holden ! 

Dave. I am. Haven't I done it all for my own sake 
— with my own happiness in view ? Didn't I plan 
and contrive, and work an underhanded scheme 
to get things into my own hands ? 

Ann. And what if you did? It was the best thing a 
man ever done, and you know it. And if Rose 
Whitman 

Dave. Now, now ! 

Ann. Well, I don't care. I'll say what I think and 
you can't stop me. Jest t' think the way you 

57 



HOME ACHES 

planned it all out from the very start, even b'fore 
they went away, and bought this farm yourself 
and never let anybody know it. And then in New 
York there, the way you made that Clay fell'w 
come t' time, and showed him up for what he was. 
Even after Miss Whitman signed that paper 

Dave. Now, Ann, see here. I'm not going to let you 
say another word. It didn't take a very smart 
man to upset that little scheme. I found out what 
Ferguson was, and when I faced him with his past 
record and threatened to prosecute him, why — 
with his picture in the Rogues' Gallery and the 
police on his trail — I didn't have much trouble 
making him destroy that paper, and he was mighty 
glad to clear out. As for Clay — when he saw the 
jig was up, he soon made himself scarce too. 

Ann. But just think what a narrow escape Rose had. 
Why, John almost made her marry him. 

Dave. Clay was only using her as a tool. He would 
have thrown her over, as he has plenty of others 
as soon as they were of no use to him. Poor little 
Rose, it has been a sad experience for her. And 
Miss Whitman — dear soul ! I hope she will be 
happy once more when she gets back here to her 
dear old Home Acres. It will be worth it all, just 
to see her when she finds out. 

Ann. I guess it will. Happy? She'll think she's 
died 'n' gone to heaven, almost, if I do say so. As 
f'r Rose — well, I guess you'll have something to 
say about her happiness — and your own, too, 
when it comes to that. 

Dave. Sure. Didn't I tell you I was working with a 
selfish end? 

Ann. They ain't a selfish bone in your body, Dave 
Holden, 'n' you know it 

Dave. Miss Rickett ! You make too much of what I 
did. To be sure, I bought Home Acres, to save it 
from the sharks, but it was a good investment — 
especially if I get Rose with it. 

Ann. Huh ! You mean to let John Whitman have it 
back again, you know you do. 

S8 



I 



HOME ACRES 

Dave. M'm— well, wouldn't it be all in the family? 
No, you can't make a hero of me, Ann Rickett, so 
you might as well stop trying. Besides, look at 
the help I had, when it came to unmasking Clay 
and getting the best of that Ferguson gang. 

Ann. Help? Oh, you mean Miss Dalton. I suppose 
she did. That certainly was a surprise, the way 
she turned. But I guess love had something to do 
with that, when you come right down to it. 

Dave. I guess it did. They say love is blind, but 
sometimes it seems to act as an eye-opener as well. 
It did in her case. When she saw that she was 
helpmg to bring about John's ruin, after she had 
encouraged him— why, she began to realize that 
she really cared for him. 

Ann. Well, she made a pretty good bluff at being one 
of them vamp-things, if I do say so. It doesn't 
seem possible now that she's the same person. 
{Turns and sees Helen, who enters r.) Here 
she is now. 

Helen {handsomely attired in evening dress, and 
much subdued and more sympathetic in manner.) 
You were talking about me, I know you were. 
But I deserve it, no matter how bad it was. 

Ann. But it happens it wasn't bad, this time — ^ 

Helen {smiling). " This time." 

Ann. Well, I didn't jest exactly mean 

Helen. I know. Don't you worry. Miss Rickett. 
bay all the bad things you can about me— as I 
was— only give me a chance to do better, and to 
win your good opinion. You will, won't you^ 

Ann. Of course I will. After the way you've turned 
out— well, I'll believe 'most anything's possible 

Dave. Worse and worse. Miss Rickett. I think vou'd 
better let it rest at that. 

Ann. Mebbe I had. And in the meantime, I'll go 
and see to that supper, and try and get Lib fixed 
up a httle There's some more " love " business 
— her n Enoch. 

Helen. Indeed ! 

Ann (r.). T's what it looks like. It seems to be in 

59 



HOME ACRES 

the air. I declare, I guess I'd better be careful, 
or I'll be ketching it m'self. 

{Exit Ann, r. ; Dave c, Helen l. c.) 

Helen. Doesn't it all seem strange, Mr. Holden — 
wonderful? I can hardly believe my senses. It 
seems as if I was in another world. 

Dave. I guess you are. Chesterville isn't much like 
New York. But it certainly is wonderful to see 
you here. I don't believe John Whitman will be 
able to believe his senses when he sees you. 

Helen. Poor fellow, what a terrible ordeal he has 
been through. How he must be suffering now. 
It was hard, it seems cruel, in a way, to have kept 
the truth from him, to let him still think that he 
is ruined, his old home sold, all his money lost — 
Oh, what a joy it will be when he gets here, finds 
Home Acres waiting for him 

Dave. And you in it, waiting for him, too. Won't it 
be worth the added suffering when he learns the 
truth ? I know it seemed cruel to him, and to 
Miss Whitman and Rose, too, but I couldn't help 
wanting to have the joy of giving them the great 
surprise. 

Helen. I know, and I don't blame you. {Going up 
c.) Isn't it nearly time for them to be here? 

Dave. Yes, unless they are delayed by the storm. It's 
snowing hard, and has been for the past hour, and 
they may be a little slow in getting up from Thur- 
man. But Ben Weaver's horses are pretty good, 
so I guess he'll get them here before long. I'm 
beginning to get scared. I'm afraid to go through 
with it, almost. 

Helen {again coming down). I know. But don't 
worry; "joy never kills." Remember, they are 
not to know I am here. I'm to appear as the 
grand climax. I seem to flatter myself I'm the 
" big act " — forgive me, that slipped out. It's 
hard to shake all your old habits, you know. But 
you understand, don't you, Mr. Holden? 

60 



H03IE ACRES 

Dave. I would, if you'd drop that pesky "Mister** 

and call me 

Helen. " Dave." Then I will, with pleasure — if you 

make it " Helen " with me. 
Dave. Sure I will, Helen. Shake ! 

(They shake hands, cordially. Sleigh-bells are heard 
outside, in the distance.) 

Helen. Listen. 

Dave. Sleigh-bells. They're coming. 

Helen. Are they ? Then I must go up-stairs. 

Dave. Yes, and I — I don't know where to go nor 

what to do, I'm so excited. I feel as if I'd turned 

horse thief, or committed murder or something. 
Helen. The idea ! When what you've done is to 

prove yourself one man in a million 

Dave. You, too. Oh, hush up! I can't stand any 

more. 

{Enter Ann, r., in great excitement.) 

Ann. I hear bells. They're comin'. Oh, Dave, 
that's them — they're comin' ! 

Dave. Yes, I know. Miss Rickett; I hear 'em too. 
{Running about, as if not knowing what he is do- 
ing.) I — you'll have to let them in. I'll go and 
hide a while. 

Helen. And I'm going up-stairs. 

Ann. For the land's sake ! I thought you had more 
sense, Dave Holden. You act like you was crazy, 
if I do say so. 

Dave. I don't know but I am. Anyhow, I feel so 
funny I don't know whether I'm standing on my 
feet or my head. 

(Helen has gone off r. Dave goes up to windozv, 
lifts curtain cautiously and peeps out.) 

Ann. They ain't here yet, them bells are quite a ways 
off. 'S fur as the Methodist church, I reckon. 

{The bells are still heard, coming nearer and nearer.) 

61 



HOME ACRES 

Dave. Yes, but they're getting closer every minute. 

Oh, Miss Rickett, what shall I do? 
Ann. Do? Act like a sane human being, if you can. 

You go out in the kitchen a while, and Fll receive 

'em, and then all of a sudden you bust right in. 

They might as well take it all in one gulp, so to 

speak, like a dose of medicine — only, of course, 

this'll be sweet for 'em. 
Dave. All right, I will. It will give me a chance to 

get my courage up. (Goes to r.) 
Ann. And when is she going to appear on the scene? 
Dave. M'm — well, after I've explained a little, why, 

then — then I'll say I have something else, and I'll 

go and get her, and — and that will be the climax. 
Ann. I guess it will. " The finishing touch," as the 

old saying is. But you'd better go. Here they 

are. 

(The bells have grown louder and louder, as the sleigh 
is supposed to draw near; they now stop suddenly, 
hut with lingering softer jingles, as a man's voice 
is heard outside calling "Whoa!" Ann goes up 
and looks out of window; Dave looks over her 
shoulder carefully, for a minute, then hurries 
across and exits r. Ann goes and opens door in 
F. There is a whirl of snow, as, after a pause, 
Enoch, in overcoat and cap, enters, with bags. 
He is followed by Rose, who assists Jane. They 
are all bundled up, with snow on their wraps. 
Ann stands back, looking at them, tremidous be- 
tween tears and smiles. Jane goes to l. c, as- 
sisted by Rose, and sinks into rocking-chair. She 
sits a moment as if dazed, staring about the room. 
Rose stands by her, doing the same. Enoch 
stands at back. Ann, having closed door, comes 
down to c.) 

Jane {clasping her hands together, her voice trem- 
bling). Rose — what does it mean? Where are 

we? Am I dreaming ? {Noticing Ann.) 

Ann — Ann Rickett! Is it — you? 

62 



HOME ACRES 

Ann. Yes, Miss Whitman, it's me. Here I am, just 
the same as when you went away. 

Jane. Went away? Away? From {Rising, 

feebly, taking a step or two.) Why, is this — am 
I back at — at Home Acres? No, no, it can't be. 
It must be a dream — another dream 

Rose. No, Auntie, dear, it isn't a dream. It's true. 
We are back home — in our old home. I don't 
know how it has all happened — I don't understand 

at all — but Oh, it is true! It is, isn't it, 

Miss Rickett? 

Ann. Yes, dear, it's true. You're home again — to 
stay. 

Rose. But — how can we be Oh, I don't under- 
stand — I 

{She breaks down, sobbing and Ann takes her in her 
arms. Jane again sinks into chair, clasping her 
hands and looking about, also weeping, in her be- 
wilderment.) 

Ann. My land, what's the matter with you two? 
You'll have me cryin' too, in a minute. It's 
enough to affect a stone image, if I do say so. 

{Enter John, d. f., in overcoat, well bundled up. He 
looks about, also in a bezvildered manner; Rose 
runs to him, seizing his arm.) 

Rose. John — John ! what does it mean ? We are back 
at Home x\cres, and — and Ann says — she says it 
is still our home, and that we are here to stay. 

John {coming down; he is rather stern, perplexed, 
with an attitude that indicates doubt, mixed with 
pride). I don't know what it means. There 
seems to be a mystery somewhere. I understood 
we were to come back as Dave's guests, until I 
could look about and see what to do. But here — 
Home Acres — it's too much for me. 

Rose. And for me, too. 

Jane. I'm all in a perfect muddle. I can hardly be- 
lieve it. Ann, you know — you must know, what 
it means. Tell us — don't keep us in suspense. 

63 



HOME ACRES 



John. Yes, Miss Rickett, if%70u have the solution to 
this conundrum, out with it. 

Ann. Why, I — I d' know's I've got any solution, so 
to speak. I believe — wd\, I guess it's been ar- 
ranged some way. Mebbe you'd better ask Dave 
Holden. I reckon he's got the answer. 

Rose. Dave ! Dear, good, unselfish Dave ! After the 
way we've treated him, too. 

Ann. He ain't holdin' that ag'inst you. That ain't 
Dave. He's one man in a million, and the best of 
the hull caboodle of 'em. 

John. Where is he? 

Ann. He just stepped out — he's in the kitchen, I 
guess. I'll go call him. 

John. Yes, do. (He still has on overcoat, having 
removed only his hat.) We've got to get to the 
bottom of this. 

Ann. Well, he's at the bottom of it, all right, if y' 
want to know. I s'pose he'd give me fits for 
sayin' so, but it's time it was known. (Going r.) 
I'll call him. (Exit Ann r. John stands by 
Jane, who is still seated l. ; Rose is c. There is 
a slight pause, then Dave enters r., impelled by 
Ann, who follozvs him.) Here he is. He acts 
half afraid, but I've brought him. 

Rose (going to Dave, grasping his hand). Dave! 
Oh, Dave, how good it is to see you — to be back 
here — home again. 

Dave. Is it. Rose? Then I'm glad. If only you 
care, and are glad, I — that's enough. 

Rose. Enough ? I guess it isn't — half. I'm going 
to kiss you for it. 

(She suddenly reaches up and kisses him. He is al- 
most overcome with surprise and joy,) 

Jane. Why — Rose ! 

(Rose goes to Dave, taking both his hands.) 

Rose. I know — but I don't care — that's his answer. 
You did ask me something, didn't you, Dave? 
And you were waiting for my answer ? 

64 



B03IE ACMES 

Dave. I sure was. And I've got it — the right one, 
too, praise be. 

(He takes her in his arms, she nestling itp to him, both 
radiant with joy. Jane sits, at most overcome.) 

Ann. There, Dave, what'd I tell >'? 

Dave. I know. But it seemed too good to be true. 

John. But what's true, that's what I want to know? 
I think it's about time we had an explanation, 
Dave. Of course, I know I owe it to you that the 
man I thought was my friend was unmasked, and 
that that rascal, Ferguson, had to disgorge and 
refund the money I had entrusted to him. I know- 
that, Dave, and I thank you for it all, from the 
bottom of my heart. I hope I'm man enough, in 
spite of all that's happened — what I have done — 
to acknowledge now that you are a real, true 
friend. 

Dave. Oh, that's all right, John. It was for Rose, 
vou know, so I wasn't so unselfish about it. 

John. Don't try to depreciate yourself. I know. 
Will you let me call you my friend, Dave ? 

(Extends his hand, which Dave grasps firmly.) 

Dave. Rather ! Aren't we going to be brothers ? 
John. And now tell me — about this place. Who is 

the real owner? You? 
Dave. Well, you've guessed it. I bought it right at 

the start, John, from Matt Culver, and made him 

promise not to tell. I thought you might want it 

back some day 

John. Want it back? 

Dave. Sure. When you got enough of city life and 

made up your mind maybe you were cut out to be 

a farmer after all — a " gentleman farmer," of 

course, John. 
John. I hope I can learn to be the real " gentleman " 

you are, Dave. 
Dave. Oh, pshaw ! M'm — well, then when Clay and 

that Ferguson scamp tried to buy your farm, 

cheap, through Culver, I let them think they could 

6s 



H03IE ACRES 

have it, and led them on. They never caught on 
who the owner really was, you know. I fooled 
them. Then I ferreted out Ferguson's record of 
crime, and though he succeeded in getting Miss 
Whitman to sign away Rose's money, in addition 
to yours that you'd turned over to him, I exposed 
him and made him give it back. So I reckon it 
out, John, that you have enough left to buy the 
farm back from me, and start all over again. 
That is, if you want to settle down here. 

Rose. Dave — Dave, what a friend you have been! 

Dave. Well, you see what I was working for — at 
least, I see her, if you don't. 

Jane {who has risen). Dave — my boy — my other 
boy! I want to kiss you too. {She goes, puts 
her arms about Dave and kisses him affection- 
ately. She is weeping, and he almost breaks down. 
Rose wipes her eyes; Ann stands at back, r., 
" using her handkerchief.'' John goes up l., his 
back turned to the others, as if not daring to trust 
himself to speak. Jane keeps Da\^ a minute, 
then takes Rose's hand and places it in his. ) This 
is your reward, Dave — all I have to give you. 
And I think it is a rich one. 

Dave. It makes me the richest man in the world. Miss 
Whitman — and the proudest. 

Rose. And me the happiest girl — though I don't de- 
serve it. 

(Dave silences her, his arm about her. John comes 

dozvn, facing Dave.) 

John. And I give her to you too, Dave, and ask you 
to forgive me, and to let me prove that I appre- 
ciate what you have done for me. It humbles my 
pride, if I have any left, but I accept your offer. 

Dave. Good. 

Jane. Then Home Acres is ours again. But yours, 
too, Dave, for you'll come here and live with us 
when 

Dave. When, Rose? 

66 



HOME ACRES 

Rose. Just when you say, Dave. " It's up to you," 
as Lib would say. 

Ann. Land, Lm almost bustin', keepin' still all this 
time. Lve got t' say something or LU explode. 
Don't y' s'pose I've had anything to do with it 'r 
got any feelin's? You act as if I was a figure 
ought, and I don't think much of it, if I do say so. 

{They all exclaim, and bring Ann down, consoling 
her. She smiles in great glee.) 

Dave. I knov^ what is the matter with you, Ann 
Rickett. You want to spring the great surprise. 

Rose. Surprise? Not another one? 

Ann. Huh! you think it's all over? Not much. It's 
up-stairs. 

Jane. Up-stairs, Ann? What is? 

Ann. The s'prise. 

{Suddenly enter Enoch and Lib, r. They stand R., 
arm in arm. Both are " all dressed up " in their 
new rigs, purchased in New York.) 

John. Is this it? 

Ann. I guess it's one of 'em. 

Lib. Say, how long you think we*s goin' t' stay out o' 

this party? Ain't it 'bout time we got invited in? 
Rose. Of course it is. But where under the sun did 

you come from ? Dave did this, too, I suppose. 

(Lib makes a bow.) 

Lib. You bet he did— both of us. Me 'n' Enoch. 

He brung us back ahead of you, and here we be. 
Jane. "Are," child. Now I'm happier than ever. It 

wouldn't seem like Home Acres without you and 

Enoch. 
Enoch. Gosh, that's good ! Just the way I felt about 

it. Wouldn't object t' hirin' man 'n' wife, 'nstead 

o* sep'rate, would y' ? 
Jane. What! — you two? 

Enoch. Well, two's enough t' make a pair, ain't it? 
Lib {pushing him). Oh, vou ! You had t' go and let 

67 



HOME ACRES 

the cat out of the bag. I ain't promised for sure 
yet, anyway. Don't be too previous. 

(He seizes her about waist, trying to kiss her; she 
"cuffs" him. The others laugh.) 

Jane. Dear me, if anything more happens, I can't 
stand it. {Looking about.) Home Acres! 

Ann. Oh, yes you can — you'll have t'. " Joy never 
killed a cat yet," y' know, so I guess you'll live 
through it. 

Rose. But there can't be anything more ? 

Ann. You never can tell. It might. Eh, Dave? 

Dave. Search me. I feel as if I couldn't stand much 
more either. 

John. It has all been rather exciting, I'll admit. Sup- 
pose we go in the other room and quiet down a 
bit. 

Jane. Yes, I think we'd better 

{Almost overcome, near to tears. John is on one side 
of her, Rose on the other; they support her and 
lead her off l., Rose looking back at Dave.) 

Rose. Coming, Dave? 

Dave. Yes, dear, in just a minute. 

Ann. I must say, I'm sort of all in a flummadiddle 
myself. Have t' get busy or I'll have a c'niption. 
{To Enoch and Lib.) Say, you two, you've got 
to go and get some supper ready, if you be en- 
gaged. All dressed up like that, too. 

Lib. Well, they's such things as apr'ns, ain't they? 

Ann. Yes, and you go 'n' put 'em on, both of you. 
I'll be out and help y' in a minute. 

Enoch. All right. Come on, " Sweetie." 

Lib. Oh, cheese it ! Let up on such mush, or I'll 
swat y' one. 

Ann. For the land's sake, such talk ! I thought you 
was goin' t' improve and be a ladv. 

Lib. Who, me? D'you think if I was a " lady" I'd 
marry a boob like that? 

Enoch. "Boob," eh? S'pose I am, 'r I wouldn't 
want you. 

68 



H03IE ACRES 



Lib. Well, you ain't got me yet, you, so don't be too 



sure. 



(She starts to slap him, but he seizes her, attempting to 
kiss her, and they go off r., struggling. ) 

Ann. If they don't beat all. Y' might as well try t' 
tame a pair o' wild hyenees. I guess I'd better go 
V look after them. 

I {Enter Helen, r. Ann looks at her in amazed ad- 
j miration. ) 

Helen. Well, don't you know me? 

Ann. Of — of course I do, but — you look so pretty. 
I didn't know who you was. What will John 
Whitman say? 

Helen. I hope he will say " Yes " when I beg his 
forgiveness 

Ann. And that you'll get a chance to say " Yes," 
when he asks you — something else. 

Dave. Ann ! 

Ann. Well, she does, and he will — and she will — so 
what's the use pretendin' ? Seems like a dream, 
doesn't it? just like a fairy story, or one o' them 
Berthy M. Clay novels— only it's more romantic 
than the hull of 'em put t'gether, if I do say so. 

{Exit Ann l. Helen comes down to c. and Dave 

goes to her.) 

Dave. I sort of feel that way myself, don't you? 

Helen. I don't know how I do feel — like an intruder, 
I guess. Just think of me coming here and wait- 
ing for him. What will he think ? 

Dave. Think? Why, he'll think it's the best and 
grandest thing that ever happened — and ten thou- 
sand times more than he deserves — " if I do say 



so." 



EIelen {smiling, though almost in tears). To think 
what I was — what I did— and then, to expect him 
to forgive me. It's ten million times more than I 
deserve. 

69 



H03IE ACRES 



Dave. I'm going to send him in— for the last and best 
surprise. 

(He starts to l. ; she seizes his arm.) 

Helen. Wait. I must get up my courage. If he: 

should spurn me 

Dave. If the sky should fall! Stand right there. 

Wait. 

(He quickly exits l. She starts to detain him, hut he 
goes off. There is a slight pause, then John en-- 
ters L., looking about in a bewildered manner, not! 
at first seeing Helen, who has withdrawn up c. 
An organ, off l., begins playing ''Home, Sweet 
Home," and then voices a^'e heard softly singing 
the piece, continuing until after fall of curtain.) 

John. Why— there's nobody here. Dave said 

Helen {coming dozvn, speaking tremidously) . John! 

John {seeing her, as if dazed). Why — it Is it 

—Helen! You? 

Helen. Yes, John. Are you glad? 

John. I— I don't understand. I thought 

Helen. You thought me mean, and wicked, and false. 
I was. But I'm sorry, John, oh, so sorry! I 
could spend my whole life trying to prove it to 
you, if— if you would let me. But if you can't— 
if you don't want me— I will go away again. 

John. Want— you! I don't understand— how it 
came about— how it can be— that you are here— 
but if you are— if it isn't a dream 

Helen. No, John, it's all true— if you want it to 
be 

John. Helen ! 

{He gazes straight at her, the truth gradually daivnim 
upon him, as he realizes it all. Then he opens hi. 
arms and she goes to him; he clasps her closely.) 

curtain 
70 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

GRADUATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
males and four females, with several minor parts. Time of 
playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes; ' 
may be presented in a hall without scenery. The unusual com4 
bination of a real "entertainment," including music, recitationsj, 
etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exerciser 
include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions^ 
and a comical speech by a country school trustee. 

EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SGHOOI:!. 

An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight mak 
and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour, 
Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Co8< 
tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
the teacher. Very easy and very effective. 

BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
and five female characters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a clerk in 
a country store, aspires to be a great author or singer and 
decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 

THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and one 
female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
part will make a hit. 

SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
to almost any place or occasion. 

THE PEHN PUBUSHING COMPANY 



(jDusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

A SURPRISE PARTY AT BRINKLEY'S. An En- 
tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood HiU(i 
School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have* 
planned a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, which surprises 
the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. 

JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. 

THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedj Sketch in One 
Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, tvvo females, or 
may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
of a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. 

THE CASE OF SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 

Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
any number of good parts. 

THE OLD MAIDS' ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
females and one male. The male part may be played by a 
female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenery 
nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
.easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. 

i BARGAIN DAY AT BLOOMSTEIN'S. A Farcical 
Entertainment in One Act, by Edward Mumford. For five males 
and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
fun from start to finish. 

IRM )9THE »ENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

^^^ PHILAPEU?Ht% 



Successful Plays for All Girls 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 

YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce In Two Acts, 
by Mrs. E. J. H. Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior. Mod- 
ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
the physician is a female practitioner. 

SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque In One Act, by Frank 
DuMONT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
and they institute a similar organization. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment, by Amelia San ford. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modem. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt, Miss 
Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modem. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "the 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
friend and so the secret travels. 

THE OXFORD ATTAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modem. The action of the 
play is located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
Howe and Miss Ashton in the face of many obstacles, furnish 
an evening of rare enjoyment. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



The Power of Expressioa 

Expression and efficiency go hand in hand. 
2* power of clear and forceful expression brings confi- 
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Are these things worth while? 
They are all successfully taught at The National School «l 

Sw7h °"-°T' "'''* '^"""^ ""-y years h«^^ 
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3Uatalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
•womphshments may be attained will be sent free on request 

THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 

mi Chestnut Street Philadelphia 

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